


roads left in both of our shoes

by imperfectkreis



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fix-It, M/M, Slow Burn, currently no spoilers, eventual spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2019-08-25 05:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16655029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: This isn’t some sort of trial. Dutch has clearly made his mind up already regarding Charles joining the gang. Arthur’s opinion doesn’t matter. At least not yet.Starts prior to Blackwater/start of game. Not strictly canon compliant.





	1. Try the lack of civilization on for size

Dutch comes into camp that evening, all sly smiles with the brim of his hat tipped down. Arthur hasn’t been back for more than twenty minutes himself, still busy with wiping down his forearms and the back of his neck. 

The West Elizabeth dust has this habit of dyeing everything it touches a sort of copper-gold, particularly with Arthur’s fairer hair. The sticky sweat brought on by the heat doesn’t help things much. Arthur is trying, and failing, to get to a decent state for dinner. To not offend the girls too badly with his stench. 

Pearson doesn’t have the stew up off the fire yet, the big metal spoon still distinctly clinking against the sides of the pot, and Arthur has has half a mind to try and shave his face a little before eating. But if he waits too long all he’ll get is the dregs from the bottom of the slop.

Like always, though, Dutch comes into camp with a flourish that can’t be ignored. Molly darts out from Dutch’s tent to greet him, the laces on the front of her cream-colored bodice a little loose. Arthur doesn’t have to look at her that good to know that the tops of her breasts are darted through with freckles. What he hasn’t settled on yet is whether or not he thinks they’re attractive. She, shockingly, burns less than Arthur does, though.

Dutch isn’t alone, a thick-built, dark-skinned man with his hair swept back and tied up off his face settling in comfortably at his side. The stranger crosses his arms over his broad chest, saying nothing as Dutch tries to move Molly along. With the stranger’s sleeves rolled up to the elbow, Arthur is pretty certain that he’s well acquainted with manual labor.

Raising his hand, Dutch motions for Arthur to meet him at his tent and Arthur puts his pot of shaving lather down. Seems like he’s destined to only get the scraps of dinner after all. He doesn’t really mind the crispy bits that stick to the side of the pot. The real problem is how chewy the game ends up when it sits too long in the heat. Talent or no, Pearson can’t avoid that.

Dutch introduces the man at his side as “Charles Smith,” to the rest of the camp as they hurry for the tent, dropping promises that they can all talk about their newest addition to the family over dinner. But he’s got to speak with Arthur first on some business. “Patience, patience,” Dutch soothes. And like the freckles on Molly’s breasts, Arthur doesn’t have to look to know the smile that’s across his mentor’s mouth.

Through it all, Charles doesn’t say a word, following Dutch into his tent, Arthur close on their heels. While Dutch has the largest tent in the camp, it still doesn’t offer much in terms of privacy. Dutch drops the flaps on either side, hiding them from view but doing nothing to muffle the noise. At most one of the girls might be eavesdropping. But there’s really no point in keeping secrets in the camp. More than anything, Dutch is just trying to avoid distractions, not obfuscate what they’re doing.

“Arthur, Charles Smith. Charles, Arthur Morgan,” Dutch makes his introductions and Arthur offers his hand without hesitation. This isn’t some sort of trial. Dutch has clearly made his mind up already regarding Charles joining the gang. Arthur’s opinion doesn’t matter. At least not yet.

“Pleased to meet you,” Charles speaks for the first time, his voice low and soft. There’s a weight to it that Arthur likes already. Not nervous or evasive, but a quiet caution. 

Arthur assesses the size and quality of Charles’ hand as they shake. It’s a good way to learn something about a man. A better way to make a judgment than who a feller’s parents were. On that topic, Arthur isn’t even about to guess when it comes to Charles. But Charles’ knuckles are broken up, with fresh scabs on the second and third joints. Palms calloused, probably from heavy use of the bow slung over his back. He stands about three inches taller than Arthur, and broader by more than that. Arthur has never been inclined to slimness himself, at least not since reaching the other side of thirty, and he’s long ago stopped worrying about his shorter stature when it comes to most other men. He more than makes up for that with other qualities.

“I have a job for the two of you. Tonight,” Dutch doesn’t waste any time. Wastes plenty of time, really with most people, but Arthur can fill in all the charming bits himself, without Dutch giving a grand performance each and every time. “Consider it a welcoming gift, Charles.”

This is typical of Dutch, giving a new man a plum job right off the bat. Shows that Dutch’s information is good, that his planning is good, that the gang will keep him safe and with enough money in his pocket. Arthur doesn’t mind in the slightest. Dutch’s favor of him makes sure he’s well taken care of too.

It’s a stagecoach job, should be simple enough. Lady and her husband heading from Saint Denis to Blackwater to start, then out all the way to New Austin to look at a piece of land. Spent last night in the hotel in Blackwater, overslept and didn’t head out until early afternoon to try and reach Tumbleweed. There’s a narrow window to intercept them, so “you boys better eat quickly and be on your way.”

Charles shakes his head, arms still crossed over his chest. For a moment, Arthur thinks that Charles is going to be one of those men questioning Dutch at every turn, too stubborn and willful to accept that someone might know better than he does. But instead of talking back, Charles simply states, “I’d rather go now, than risk missing the coach. If that’s agreeable to you, Arthur.”

“Sure,” Arthur drawls. Dinner is a lost cause at this point. And maybe, if the take is good, they can bother the saloon in Blackwater about some dinner later. He may not be terribly fond of civilization in all its forms, but even Arthur makes an exception when it comes to a hot meal.

Charles nods, “I’ll wait for you by the horses.”

And with that, Charles slips from the tent, the flap folding back down behind him.

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head, “Where did you find this one, then?”

“Might say he found me,” Dutch slaps Arthur on the back. “Walked right up to me along the river docks. Heard I was a man to run with, if you’re interested in regular meals and some company. Didn’t even ask about percentages.”

Arthur can’t help but smile a little in response to Dutch’s good cheer, “They all ask, once it’s time to part with half the take.”

Dutch shrugs, “I’ve got a good feeling about a man willing to work hard.”

Excusing himself, Arthur stops only long enough at his cart to grab his rifle and repeater. Never did much care for the shotgun. True to his word, Charles is waiting for him where they have the horses hitched, brushing down his stallion.

Lately, Arthur has preferred fillies, but he’s using a horse Hosea “acquired” last week, no papers. Still a temperamental boy, a little wild. And while Hosea is a skilled rider, he’s past the age that taking a fall from atop a full-grown horse is something to easily shake off. Dutch is past that age too, but won’t admit to it outright. So it’s fallen to Arthur to try and break the horse well enough to fence it for a decent price. Hell, after the amount of work he’s put into it, he’s liable just to trade him in for something closer to his preferences.

Charles asks Arthur to lead the way, that soft tone creeping back into his voice. Arthur wonders about the history of that voice, the progression that lead Charles to speak too softly. Maybe because he’s that big, tall and broad and thick all around. People are likely to be scared, whether you say something or not. Don’t need to be too loud.

They ride in a silence that edges just towards awkward, at least for Arthur. He’s not a chatty person, by any means. Anyone else, and he might be grateful that they’re bothering to keep their mouth shut. Not the girls. Because if Arthur is with the girls it’s because he wants to hear them talk. But the men. They never really have much worth listening to. But he sort of thinks, right now, that Charles might be decent at conversation. Might be interesting.

The daylight runs from them as they approach the ridge where Dutch told them to wait for the stage. While the couple inside are looking at a piece of land, Dutch doesn’t have anything concrete about the money being on them. What he does have is that the lady has a mighty expensive necklace on, big stones in her earrings too. Never easy getting a lady out of her finer pieces if she’s already wearing them, but Dutch already has a fence lined up to carry the jewels across the southern border.

“You done this before?” Arthur asks, pulling his handkerchief up over his face. 

He watches as Charles copies him, pulling the slip of fabric up off his neck and over his mouth. The last remnants of the setting sun give Charles’ dark hair the same sort of copper tinge that Arthur gets from the dirt. And for a moment, Arthur thinks it’s pretty important that he remembers what this looks like. That maybe, when there isn’t the pressing matter of an armed robbery, it might be in his best interest to get a good sketch down of what Charles looks like in three-quarters profile.

“Yeah, once or twice. But don’t worry,” Charles assures Arthur, pulling his sidearm from his waist rather then the bow from his back, “other people aren’t accustomed to telling me ‘no’ when asked nicely enough.”

Arthur can’t help but laugh, shake his head, because he believes it. Charles asking sweet as can be to put all your valuables into this sack, please and thank you, and ladies and gentlemen alike bending over backwards to conform to his wishes.

“Maybe not so good at getting the coach to stop,” Charles admits, and Arthur can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s smiling under the bandana, “I’ll leave that part up to you.”

“My pleasure,” Arthur concludes.

They wait another ten minutes until they hear the coach, then see it as it comes up over the ridge. Arthur pulls on his horse’s reins, bringing the boy up to a trot, then a gallop. Charles follows after and within seconds they’re up to full speed, looping around behind the stagecoach with enough noise that the driver knows exactly where they are.

The driver snaps the reins, trying to bring the two work-horses up to speed, but they’ll never outrun the stallions. They’ll wear themselves out too quickly and Arthur is already gaining ground on them as he starts to loosen his foot from the far-side stirrup. He doesn’t look back to see if Charles is keeping up. Doesn’t need to, he can hear the horse behind him. 

Just as the coach starts to slow down, the driver turns sharply, shotgun drawn and ready to fire once the dastardly outlaws get too close.

But he never has the time, too slow on the trigger as Arthur pulls up in line with the coach, launching himself off the horse and tackling the driver down onto the box bench. Arthur hisses at the driver to behave, realizing now that he is barely more than a boy, his blue eyes wide and frightened as the horses keep barreling at half-speed down the trail. Even if they’re exhausted, the horses will crash and kill them all out of fear if Arthur can’t calm them.

He has to turn his attention from the driver back to the reigns, urging the horses to slow down, easy now. The boy keeps on shaking and behind them in the coach Arthur can hear the couple frantically arguing about what’s going on. The wife is admonishing the husband on not hiring a shotgun to travel with them.

Charles pulls up beside the coach, slowing his horse to a trot, then a full stop.

“Show me what you got,” Arthur smirks, even though he knows Charles can’t see it.

Climbing off his horse, Charles keeps his sidearm drawn as he knocks on the coach door, “Best you open up, jewelry, cash, valuables, and we’ll be on our way.” His voice is just loud enough to be heard through the door.

Arthur keeps his ears on their interaction, rather than his eyes. Everything is going smoothly enough, and his priority is making sure the driver doesn’t do anything stupid. He hears as the couple opens the door, just wide enough to toss out their valuables in the dirt. Charles must be satisfied with the take, as after that he gets back up on his horse.

“Now listen,” Arthur tries to soothe the driver, same as he did with the horses, “count slowly down from thirty, then you can pull away. Understand, boy?”

The kid nods frantically, “Yes sir, I will, sir.”

“Good kid, see. You listened, and everyone got what they wanted.”

Arthur whistles sharply, but only half expects his horse to come running. Blasted, stubborn thing. When no horse materializes, he barks at the kid to count down from sixty instead, and hops down out of the box.

Once his feet are on the ground, the kid starts counting, and Charles circles around. He offers a hand up to Arthur, so that he can climb on the back of his horse. Not too proud to take the help, Arthur swings his leg up over the back of Charles’ stallion, and they take off in the vague direction of Arthur’s horse.

They find the goddamn wretch a good quarter mile away. At least the beast has the sense not to run when Arthur gets off of Charles’ horse and mounts his own instead. Riding out a little further, side by side, Arthur pulls his handkerchief down off his face. Breathing in too deeply will just pull more dust into his lungs. 

Charles suggests they stop within sight of Blackwater. If Arthur doesn’t mind, he’s got venison jerky and some flatbread already in his pack. They can stop and eat something, then veer back towards the camp without going into town. 

That all sounds fine enough to Arthur. The only reason he was about to take them into Blackwater was to eat. And if Charles wants to keep away, that’s not something Arthur is about to push.

Charles starts a fire, just enough for a little light and warmth. Doesn’t matter how hot the days are, this time of year, once the sun goes down, the chill sets in. Both of them are too hungry to talk much during dinner, but Arthur at least explains that half the take will go to the gang, and they split the other half. It’s a little more complicated with the fence involved, but Dutch hasn’t once cheated him out of his share. Dutch is fair. He cares about the people he rides with. Until the end.

“That’s what I’m hoping for,” Charles responds.

He offers Charles a cigarette, as they sit next to the dying embers of the fire. Just a few more minutes and they’ll ride on to camp. Arthur is sure now that they’re not being followed. Charles declines the cigarette, but Arthur notes how he still sits close enough to breathe in the smoke, each time that Arthur quietly exhales.


	2. Heroism so you can sleep at night...and profit in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh...guys I’m just so overwhelmed by the support you all showed on the first chapter. Like, really really touched that people are this excited for what is admittedly going to be quite a long haul.
> 
> I’m sorry that so far the chapters haven’t been very long. I almost considered not posting this today because it “wasn’t long enough to justify a chapter,” but I’m trying not to get so in my own head that I end up posting nothing at all. I really will try to write something a little longer for next week.

By the time the week is out, Arthur has watched Charles kill a man.

And it’s not entirely what he expected.

Dutch has a job for him, out towards the far west territories, into Gaptooth Ridge. It’ll take the better part of three days just to ride out to the mines. Whatever Dutch thinks that Arthur is going to find there, better be worth the hassle of the trip. 

Payroll, apparently, is what they’re after. Enough funds to compensate thirty miners, two foremen, and four guards for a month. That’s decent, but only if they don’t run into any trouble.

Arthur’s given free reign on who to take with him, it’s a two man job. It’s slim pickings from the start. Sean and Bill are already enroute to Strawberry, some lead about a fussy banker from New York on holiday, who can’t hold onto his liquor or his money clip. When it comes to drinking and gambling, there’s probably no finer pair than those two.

Javier is the obvious choice. The Lobos might not look twice at him crossing through New Austin with a companion. But he’s held up with a broken wrist. Can barely handle the recoil on his pistol at the moment, much less a rifle. Strauss did what he could to patch him up, but the break needs time,

And John? Well. Fuck John. He’s a good shot, and a cooler head than Arthur usually admits. But the thought of six days, at minimum, with his incessant yapping? No. Just no.

Arthur can’t think of one good reason not to take Charles with him, other than the simple fact that he’s new. Dutch has at least kept Charles busy the last few days, though since the coach job, it’s been mostly ensuring that Pearson’s larder is well-stocked. 

But when Arthur tells Charles to follow him, he doesn’t question, leaving off the latest fresh kill on Pearson’s butchering table and preparing for the trek out west. Arthur tells him to take supplies for a week. 

There’s doe blood dripping down the front of his shirt from where the arrow went directly through her heart.

Watching Charles kill a man is nothing at all like that.

It’s not quiet, or dignified, or polite.

Arthur can’t pinpoint the exact moment things go south on the payroll job, but one second he’s speaking with the foreman at the dig site, asking innocuously about directions back to Tumbleweed as a ruse, and the next, the Lobos are breathing down their necks. They announce their arrival with a victory shout, as premature as that might be, Gunfire pierces the hot desert air, followed by the shocked shouts of the miners, running back into the tunnels for cover.

Looks like Arthur and Charles aren’t the only ones who know the payroll comes today. Or maybe it’s just poor timing.

The foreman doesn’t ask for Arthur and Charles’ help, but they’re sure as hell about to offer. With a couple of strategic stray bullets, Arthur can stack the deck in their favor, once the Lobos are dealt with and the dust settles. He can try and covertly pick off the guards, giving him and Charles a little more breathing room to grab the cash and run.

With his rifle still strapped to the side of his horse, Arthur has to make due with his sidearm, ducking in behind one of the sealed supply crates and praying to a god he doesn’t rightly believe in that it’s not filled with dynamite. His heart races in his chest, the first burst of gunfire rattling his senses. He has to focus.

Arthur listens as the Lobo who has got his revolver trained on him cycles through his cylinder. One, two bullets stuck in the wood crate acting as makeshift cover. A third sails over the peak of Arthur’s hat. 

Inhaling, Arthur prepares to stick his head out, just fast enough to get a clear shot at the Lobo firing at him. On the exhale, he comes up from his crouch, the whole world slowing down as he aims, the bright desert sun dimming, the wiz of surrounding bullets thunderously loud, like a heartbeat between his ears.

But before Arthur can pull the trigger, his attention breaks. The Lobo in his sights shrieks in horror, crashing violently into the wooden barrel he’s hidden behind. The barrel is too heavy to even move, but something more fragile cracks on impact. Arthur doesn’t have a clear view on what just happened, just a flash of tawny-colored work pants, navy blue on top. Charles, he realizes, that was Charles tackling the Lobo against the barrel.

The Lobo’s next wail is loud, wet-sounding, and ragged. And when Charles emerges, he’s red, blue, and golden all over as he rounds the heavy barrel on the other side, getting back into cover. Arthur only has a second more to watch as Charles draws his bow from his back, hand slick with fresh blood, before he has to turn his attention to the next Lobo ready to try his luck.

By the time the last of the Lobos are strewn out across the dirt, along with three of the four guards hired by the mining company, Arthur is ready for a hot bath and a slow ride home. The vibrant red splashed across Charles’ hands, his neck, his face, has dried and dulled to a muted brick. There’s still flecks of flesh clinging to the fabric pulled tight across his chest and he smells of copper. He stands quietly at Arthur’s side, like he’s not covered in guts and blood, as the foreman thanks them, just in time for the payroll to arrive by coach.

Without so much as a nod from Arthur, Charles pulls the hired shotgun down off the driver’s box. He presses the blade of his throwing knife against the man’s sunburnt throat, while Arthur explains the real reason for their visit out to the mines.

In a panic, the coach driver tries to scramble away, practically falling out of the box and crashing in the dirt. Arthur fires a single shot between the apex of his thighs, the bullet burying itself deep into the earth. The driver is mighty lucky that Arthur’s shot is true.

The foreman understands the situation well enough, letting out an empty sigh and assuring Arthur that he has the key to the lockbox. There’s no need to damage the structural integrity of the coach, on top of everything else that has happened today. Arthur escorts him around to the rear of the coach, pistol pressed squarely into his left kidney to keep him honest. 

Charles, for his part, doesn’t breathe a word. Just holds the hired gun in place, keeping him well out of Arthur’s hair. There’s another guard milling about someplace too. Or maybe he’s realized he’s not getting paid this month and made a break for it while he still could.

With shaking hands, the foreman rattles the key in the lock until the box pops open. Arthur thanks him for his help and whistles for his horse. Small mercy, that the beast actually listens this time, and Charles’ stallion is following close behind. 

He doesn’t bother counting out the money, just shoving stacks wrapped together in tight, white paper bindings into his burlap sack. The whole take amounts to a couple hundred, if he would have to guess.

“We’re done here,” Arthur tells Charles, rounding the stage and swinging his leg up into the stirrup to mount his horse.

Charles shoves the guard away, lifting his foot to kick him hard in the small of his back and send him reeling. The extra momentum causes the guard to stumble against the front of the stage, smashing his face against the side of the driver’s box. Unconscious, he falls to the ground in a boneless heap.

“He’ll be fine,” Charles says, turning away from the scene.

Arthur doesn’t rightly care one way or another. 

They won’t be able to make it clear of New Austin by the morning, even if they ride straight through. There are too many empty miles of desert between the ridge and the border. The most that they can hope for is putting enough distance between themselves and the mines that the authorities in Tumbleweed will have difficulty tracking them on their journey back east.

The sky is an inky grayish red as they dart past Tumbleweed, no intention of slowing down. Tumbleweed is the biggest settlement for miles around, and, more importantly, has a decent sheriff. Arthur wants to make it within striking distance of Armadillo before stopping for the night, though he has no intention of paying a visit in town. Traveling through the desert though, you have to keep track of landmarks, hold your bearings. Straying too far from the beaten paths can only lead to trouble.

They lose the sun and when Arthur doesn’t stop, Charles lights his lantern, giving them at least a little illumination as they ride. He doesn’t complain, not one bit, that they’ve been riding for hours now. Though Arthur knows they can’t keep pushing the horses like this.

Armadillo doesn’t glitter in the night. It throbs, though, a pale, sickly sort of yellow from the lanterns hung over the saloon and the general store. It’s been in the papers in West Elizabeth, a little, how the settlement is dying. Disease and debauchery and no attention at all from the law. Sounds about perfect, but there’s probably already a bounty on their heads. So Arthur doesn’t venture too close.

“Up there,” Charles gestures to the plateau that just overlooks the sad excuse for a town. “We’ll be able to see anyone coming in or going out of Armadillo.

Arthur grunts, “Probably telegraphed our descriptions ahead from Tumbleweed.”

“Maybe,” Charles pulls at his stallion’s reins, turning him towards the gentlest section of slope heading up onto the plateau.

Shaking his head, Arthur smiles and follows, because Charles is right. It’s a great vantage point. Out in the open desert, they could be approached from any angle. At least here, they’ll be able to keep an eye on the sheriff, and any particularly ambitious bounty hunters who might come calling.

There’s not enough water in their canteens to wash up, and they can’t risk building a fire and giving away their position so close to the town. But Charles dims his lantern, setting it down carefully between where they’ve laid out their bedrolls.

Arthur takes the first watch, sitting up and keeping his eyes on the quiet streets of Armadillo below. Maybe he should have taken this opportunity to talk to Charles, to broach at least a few of the questions that have been swirling around in his head. It ain’t exactly his place to make new members feel at home. Arthur knows he’s ill suited for that. Like there’s always taffy in his mouth making the words stick all funny. 

But, so far, Charles has been easy to work with, their problem-solving skills in sync. They’re going to keep on working together. So Arthur could at least make a little effort to be friendly, to get to know the man sleeping at his side. 

Should’ve thought of that before they stole the payroll.

Ah, well, they’ll get another opportunity, further down the line.

The settlement is small, a saloon, sheriff’s office, general store, maybe just under a dozen wood-frame homes. The streets are wide enough for two stagecoaches to pass side by side, but Arthur sincerely doubts that there was ever enough activity to necessitate such a luxury. Great ambitions for such an out-of-the-way dump.

Still, Arthur thinks that he might like it here, further west than Dutch is willing to move the gang. For all his talk about the perils of civilization, the nobility of their way of life on the edge of everything good and proper, Dutch has never taken them out of striking distance of the nearest town. Might be folly, the amount of time they’ve now spent in the vicinity of Blackwater. But Dutch says he has a plan. And Arthur trusts him. He loves him.

Arthur checks his pocket watch in the dim light of the lantern, making sure it’s time to wake Charles. Shoving gently at Charles’ shoulder, Arthur jostles him awake, whispering in the darkness that it’s time to change watch. There’s still blood on Charles’ face, creeping down to stain the collar of his shirt. 

Settling in to rest, Arthur pulls his bedroll up high enough to hide his face from the sand carried through the air.

Sleep has almost claimed him, fuzzy around the edges of his consciousness, when Arthur smells the sharp tang of smoke. 

Charles’ hand is on his shoulder, trying to rouse him quickly. Closer to wakefulness now, Arthur can hear the crackling of burning timber, then the sharp, unmistakable sound of a woman screaming down below.

Jolting forward, Arthur rushes to Charles’ side, both of them hurrying to the rocky edge of the plateau. Below them, one of the shabby homes, set back a bit from the main throughway, burns brightly in the night.

The flames have already reached the wooden roof, dancing in the darkness to the gentle sway of the wind. Almost beautiful.

Townsfolk start emerging from their homes at the commotion, bleary-eyed and some of them still half-drunk from their time at the saloon. Not one of them hurries over, not even when the woman’s scream can be heard again.

“We have to help,” Charles stammers, turning fiercely and running back towards where his horse is tethered. 

Arthur doesn’t hesitate to follow. Doesn’t even think through the consequences. Because when Charles says they have to help, he can render no objections.


	3. There is tinder in your hair, the coals of your breath

Arthur snatches off his bandana, dunking it in the mostly empty water trough outside the saloon. Chasing after Charles, he doesn’t have the breath to stop, to yell, to question what they’re doing here. To warn Charles they can’t be playing hero.

Charles races inside the burning building, disappearing into flame without hesitation. Cursing, Arthur covers his nose and mouth in the wet cloth, the gritty desert sand he picked up with the water scratching against his skin.

The heat of the fire is oppressive, terrifying, if Arthur is honest. He’s not the sort of man to take a fool’s errand like this. He’s reasonable, level-headed. But still the flames flicker around his arms, his legs, his face. The burning timber of the house starts to creak, snapping sounds of family heirlooms eaten up by the encroaching storm. He never expected it to be so loud.

“Say something!” Charles yells from somewhere upstairs. “Say something, baby, so I can find you,” his voice rises over the roaring flames.

Arthur has only been inside for thirty-seconds, maybe less, and already he feels raw, cooking inside his skin, sweat slicking off his arms as his body desperately tries to compensate. The wet cloth over his face keeps most of the smoke out of his lungs, but neither he nor Charles have much time. And Arthur isn’t about to let either of them die over some strange woman too ash-drunk to save her own hide.

Darting up the stairs, Arthur feels them start to give. One cracks underneath his trailing food, tumbling down into the burning pit growling beneath him, “Fuck.” He looks up towards the top of the stairs to see Charles triumphant, a woman’s limp body draped across his arms bridal-style, her dark hair falling loose towards the floor. Everything in Arthur’s vision is tinged red by the fire.

“We’ll have to go out through the window!” Charles shouts.

Arthur turns around, looking back towards the first floor to find most of the staircase now collapsed behind him. On the second floor landing, Charles shifts the girl’s weight to allow him use of his left hand. He punches clean through the pane so that he can grab hold of the wooden bars between the glass and pull, pull, pull, until the frame snaps and gives, opening up the window enough that they can climb out.

“Jump out,” Charles tells him, shifting the woman’s weight again. Arthur fears the worst, that she’s already dead. Though in the orange light of the blaze her skin looks warm and flush. “I’ll toss her down to you.”

“Alright!” It’s not as if Arthur is exactly looking forward to jumping out a second story rear window. But it’s obviously a great fucking idea to get out of the burning building. They’ve maybe been inside two minutes, at most. But Arthur’s lungs feel tender.

Scrambling through the broken window, Arthur can barely twist his shoulders through the frame. He tumbles towards the ground, free falling and picking up speed. He tries to twist his body so he’ll land on the hardest bits, shoulder, hip, knee, as to minimize the risk of breaking anything. Landing with a plop in less than two inches of mucked, loose hay, Arthur only has seconds to get his bearings before Charles shouts he’s gonna toss the woman down.

She falls like an angel, loose and far too pretty, her dark hair flying as she careens towards the earth, almost floating in her ruined nightgown. Arthur catches her, the loose fabric billowing around her frame, and moves away, giving Charles enough space to jump. 

Charles drops like a brick, but he lands okay, groaning in a sharp sort of pain but getting up and to his feet. Arthur keeps hold of the girl as they put some distance between themselves and the rumbling house. And not a moment too soon, because the side of the building collapses shortly after, sending sparks and ash flying.

Arthur doesn’t even realize he’s short of breath until Charles points it out, offering weakly to take the girl. “Is she breathing?”

For the first time since they left their makeshift camp up on the plateau, Arthur has enough time to process what they’ve done. Heroic acts, like helping a girl in need escape from a burning building, isn’t a problem, exactly. But usually, extending a kind hand is best accomplished when there isn’t an active bounty on your head.

“Yeah, I think so,” Arthur says, starting to lower her to the ground.

Charles hurries to strip off his duster awkwardly, tugging it off of his right arm and laying it across the ground so they don’t have to set her in the dirt. “She needs a doctor,” Charles observes, grabbing her wrist, “her pulse is weak.”

“Okay, alright,” Arthur hops back up to his feet. 

Leaving Charles and the girl behind, he runs back towards the central square. They had made their escape from the burning wreck around the back of the building, the side facing the plateau, and subsequently carried the girl out into the open desert. Not so far as to really worry about predators, and surly Charles is armed. But while at least a dozen gawkers must have seen them run into the building from the street-side, no one witnessed them tumbling out the rear window.

Arthur starts shouting for a doctor, once he’s in sight of the assembled crowd, rough looking women and drunk looking men, huddled together from the cold of the night. As if the disaster before their eyes couldn’t keep them warm.

“A doctor!” Arthur shouts again, and if no one answers this time, he’s about to knock their heads in. They’ll be the ones needing a doctor.

“Sir, Sir!” A girl, really a girl this time, maybe sixteen squeaks up, “the town ain’t got a doctor, ‘cept for me. I patch people up, mostly.”

“Jesus Christ,” Arthur curses, not hiding his frustration, “Alright, come along now, we pulled a girl from the house.”

The girl stands up a little straighter, as if she’s no longer scared of Arthur. She grabs an even littler boy by the shoulder, sending him to go fetch her things from her ma’s house. When Arthur turns to lead her to the body of the woman pulled from the fire, she takes long strides to keep up with him, head held high.

Charles is still sitting next to the woman, knees loosely folded towards his chest. Quiet in the darkness. The girl-“doctor” starts a little when she sees him, silently watching over the barely breathing victim. But quickly she snaps the air of professionalism back onto her tiny features, crouching down and telling “Gabby, it’ll be alright.”

She holds the girl’s hand at first, pressing her fingers to her wrist to feel for a pulse, then her neck. Once satisfied that Gabby is breathing well, she starts pulling back the half-burnt remains of her clothes.

“A little privacy, please,” the girl asks, starting to shoo Charles and Arthur away.

As they turn to give her space, the boy, a lad of about eleven maybe, comes running over, along with one of the adults from town. He has a beaten looking canvas sack clutched tightly to his chest, containing whatever it is the girl must have asked for to tend to her patient.

The boy brushes by them both without a word, his bottom lip between his teeth. He hurries on to assist the makeshift doctor, while the adult, a man of about forty-five, stops to speak with Arthur and Charles.

Arthur had been hoping that this was their opportunity to make a quick escape. They could skirt around the side of the plateau and make it up to their horses and packs. Disappear into the night before anyone realized what they had done.

But his hopes are dashed when the man from town extends his hand, thanking them profusely for saving his daughter from the fire. Arthur is about ready to sneer at him, that had he not been a coward, he could have well saved her himself.

The words don’t make it past his teeth, though, and instead Arthur finds himself warily taking the man, Gable Dillon’s, hand. They shake, before Dillon extends his hand to Charles as well. Charles hesitates for a split second, and Arthur watches as Charles awkwardly extends.

“Please, please we’ll give you lodging at the saloon, for as long as you might need it. Or the gunsmith has a room above the shop as well. Whatever suits you better. No need to sleep out in the cold. It’s the least that we can do.”

Arthur offers up some half-formed excuse. Just passing through, and it’s nearly morning already. They’d best be getting to their horses. No thanks necessary. Though Arthur can’t help but wince at his own dismissal of payment. If Dillon were about to offer cash, he would take it.

Just then, the girl-doctor seems to materialize by magic at Charles’ side. She barely comes up to his chest, all toothpick limbs, fussing over him. “Do you want me to splint that arm or not?” she asks, rocking back on her heels. “I’m good at that. Did it for Ms. Norma’s break last summer, healed up real nice. Can still lift it above her head, and everything.”

“You hurt?” Arthur turns to face Charles, not a sign of discomfort on his face.

But he exhales loudly, “It won’t be a problem. Let’s get to the horses.”

“It’s broken though. Isn’t it?” The girl insists, “I can tell.”

“Okay, yes fine,” Charles half-laughs, and Arthur doesn’t know if he’s just humoring the girl in her playacting as a medical professional, or if she’s really hit on some ailment that Charles wouldn’t otherwise admit to.

“I can get what I need from Mr. Clarence at the general store. I’m sure he’ll open up and let me in. But before that, someone needs to carry Gabby home. Til and I can’t manage it.”

Arthur figures Til must be the little boy. Surely Mr. Dillon can manage to carry his own daughter….well wherever it is they’re going. Since their home is still in the process of burning down. At least now some of the other townsfolk seem to be concentrating their efforts on making sure the flames don’t spread to the nearby homes.

“I live just down that way,” Mr. Dillon points to a different house down the way. “Her baby sister should be there already. Came running to me when the house caught.” He shakes his head, explaining the situation a little more, “Don’t think she'd appreciate it much if I carried her. If you don’t mind, mister. Gabby and I had a falling out about a month ago, took her sister Gail with her to Mrs. Frye’s. Don’t live with me anymore, at least not right this moment, but it’s better than keeping her outside.”

“Absolutely,” the girl-doctor says. “Please, mister, if you could take her to Gail?”

With a shuffling sigh, Arthur relents, heading back over to where Gabby is still laid out across Charles' coat. Charles is clearly in no condition to carry her, so he carefully crouches down, slotting his arms underneath her shoulders and knees and lifting her up.

The color in Gabby’s face looks better, clearly from the warmth of her own body rather than the flickering fire. The doctor has stripped her out of her ruined nightshirt and carefully preserved her modesty with a clean sheet. Arthur is careful not to touch her where he shouldn’t, as he carries her back towards her father.

Til trots along after them, the canvas sack noticeably lighter in his hands. He asks the girl-doctor, “Nancy, where we going?” and she gives him instructions to go fetch Mr. Clarence, she needs materials for a splint big enough for the big man’s arm.

“Chester,” Charles gives as a name.

“I need them for Chester,” Nancy corrects herself.

With his orders, Til darts off, running in the direction of the square.

The fire is mostly reduced to cinders, the gawkers have moved on, shambling back towards their own homes. But Arthur watches as Till pulls on a man’s shirt sleeve, falling into step beside him.

The rest of them continue on to Mr. Dillon's home, a little ways down the street from the fire. Just as he said, a younger girl, closer to Nancy’s age than to Gabby’s, is waiting for them on the porch.

“Oh!” She shouts, “is that Gabby? Is she...she’s not dead is she? You’d cover her face if she were dead, right? I tried..I tried to drag her but I couldn’t...I tried, I tried.”

Mr. Dillon wraps his younger daughter into his arms holding her tight against him. He murmurs, “No, your sister ain’t dead, no.”

Nancy pushes the door open and holds it while both Arthur and Charles step inside. There’s a double bed in one corner of the front room and Nancy says to put Gabby down carefully. That was her and Gail’s bed before they left.

“Is she going to be alright?” Charles asks, just as Gail and her father follow them back inside the house. Mr. Dillon sets about lighting the lamps so the room isn’t so very dim. 

Nancy gives a solemn nod, “I can’t do much about her lungs. Don’t think the doctor in Tumbleweed could do much either. But I cleaned her burns up, bandaged them nice. It won’t be infection that gets her. Not if I have anything to say about it, sir.”

Arthur supposes that she must be right. If the girl knows the basic way to dress a burn or wound, that accounts for an awful chunk of what a doctor might do too. He feels a touch guilty for doubting her. She might be inexperienced on account of her age, but if she can read, or someone with more experience taught her, that doesn’t mean she lacks the basic idea of what to do.

Til hustles inside the house, his canvas sack stuffed again, bits of wood sticking out of the mouth of the bag. Nancy asks for a little bit of space to work. So if the two gentlemen could just step outside while she works on Chester, please and thank you.

Mr. Dillon and Arthur head outside, Gail following quickly after. Til, as Nancy’s deputized assistant, stays behind to help her set the bone.

Gail sits on the wooden bench back against the side of the house, while Mr. Dillon and Arthur lean over the beamed railing. Before Arthur can reach for the pack of cigarettes that should be in his shirt-front pocket, Mr. Dillon produces his own, offering up one to his guest.

They smoke a little in silence at first, both listening for any signs of pain from inside the house. Setting a bone is seldom a pretty thing, and Arthur wonders again if Charles really broke it.

“Your friend don’t say much,” Mr. Dillon comments.

Arthur corrects him, “Says what’s important. And that’s good enough for me.”

“I mean it though, Mr….”

“Callahan,” Arthur offers.

“Mr. Callahan, Chester might need to sleep that injury off a bit before you ride out. Awful painful, jostling a break like that, when it’s so fresh. Morphine might dull the pain and all but the bone don’t set quite right.”

Arthur knows all that. He really does. Knows Javier is laid up in camp right now with a break too. A couple more days and Dutch ain’t gonna miss them. He trusts Arthur, and knows that even if things go wrong, he’ll find his way back to Dutch. Always has.

But they’re still too close to Tumbleweed to take the risk. The foreman saw their faces clearly, and Arthur and Charles no doubt stand out in a crowd. Fuck, they’ve gone and made themselves local celebrities and all. This couldn’t have gone worse.

The safest option is still to get Charles out of Armadillo, they can ride a couple miles more while the morphine dulls the pain and find some shelter. Something out of the way, easily defensible. Hole up for a few days until Charles is on the mend. It’s less than ideal, but better than staying in town. If word about the bounty hasn’t reached the local Sheriff yet, it’s sure to in the morning telegram.

Til slips outside, leaving the door ajar behind him, calling, “Mister, your friend should be fine. But he’s a little loopy, and a lot heavy.”

Arthur and Mr. Dillon follow the boy back inside and sure enough, Charles has slipped out of the kitchen chair Nancy had him sat in while she tended to his arm. The normally dignified Charles is a bit of a smiling, giggling, mess on the floor. At least he managed to land on his good arm and not the broken one.

“Sorry, Mister,” Nancy says sheepishly, “I wasn’t so sure about the dose.”

Arthur is sure that she meant no harm. And Jesus Christ, she’s just a kid. He has to admit, the splint on Charles’ injured arm looks neat and tidy, but he’s in no condition to ride a horse. Looks like they’re going to have to accept that offer for a room at the saloon after all. With any luck, Charles will be sober soon enough, and they can slip out of town before anyone puts two and two together.

Dragging his hand down his face, Arthur asks Mr. Dillon about that room. He’ll have to help ‘Chester’ to his feet and across the street, then head up to where they were camped to grab their supplies, (and Jesus Christ, the payroll), and horses.

Mr. Dillon heads out first, Arthur struggling a bit to get Charles up off the ground. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be much of a problem. Yeah, Charles is big, but Arthur has had to handle bigger men in his day. It’s more about trying not to fuck too much with his injured arm. Nancy, good kid really, tries to coach the angle, offering suggestions where she can.

Charles isn’t unconscious, just too loopy to figure out exactly where to plant his feet. But once he realizes what Arthur is trying to do, he helps the best he can, trying to shift his weight enough that Arthur can steady him on his feet.

Slipping his shoulder underneath Charles’ good arm, Arthur slings it over his own back, holding tight to Charles’ wrist to keep him steady. Getting to the saloon is fairly straightforward, just one foot in front of the other. Charles, loose with the morphine, lolls his head against Arthur’s, resting just that bit higher. The soft waves of his hair tickle against Arthur’s neck, causing him to flinch.

The barkeep and Mr. Dillon are waiting outside for them with the key to one of the upstairs rooms. Mr. Dillon assures them that he has the tab, they can stay as long as they need to for Mr. Chester’s arm to mend. He’s not a man of unlimited means, but he’s comfortable enough to pay them back for saving his daughter. The barkeep, who can’t be over thirty, mumbles something about how he’s awfully appreciative as well on account of them saving Gabby.

The stairs aren’t the easiest to manage, but Arthur gets them up, Charles mumbling something into his hair, breath warm against Arthur’s scalp. It sounds an awful lot like, “thank you,” followed by something else he can’t quite make out.

Once Charles is laid out in the big double bed, Arthur leaves him be. He’s still gotta grab their gear, the money, and the horses, before he can even think about sleeping.

Between the saloon and their campsite, the sun starts to break over the horizon, orange-gold, and every bit as terrifyingly brilliant as the house fire they just ran headfirst into. Fuck, Arthur can’t even really comprehend they did that. But sometimes...that’s just the way things are. His own life starts to feel like a magic lantern show, at once too fantastic and semi-static in the recalling of events.

He works out a plan to bury the payroll up on the plateau. So if they’re made in Armadillo, maybe they can deny being the bandits at Gaptooth. Or they can always come back for the money later, if they get apprehended and taken in. Better not to have it on them.

By the time Arthur makes it back, the barkeep is sweeping out the porch. Arthur leads the horses up to hitch, and the barkeep tells him he’ll get them fresh water once he’s done with the tidying up. The wind has carried ash clear across the town.

Arthur thanks him kindly, hauling both his and Charles’ packs up to their room. By the time he climbs into bed next to Charles, he’s so bone-tired that he doesn’t even consider staying up a moment longer.


	4. The responsibility of terrible angles

Arthur opens the shutters, leaning out the window ledge to light his cigarette. The scent of smoke might wake Charles otherwise. The glow of the cherry almost disappears in the bright, mid-morning light, swallowed up by starker illumination. 

From his perch on the second floor, Arthur can see out onto the main drag of Armadillo without much trouble, including the smouldering mess of ash that makes up the tattered remains of Mrs. Frye’s house. He still doesn’t rightly know what became of old lady Frye. But no one last night seemed much concerned with another tenant needing rescue, so all is presumably well.

Otherwise, there’s not much of anything going on in the dilapidated little town: A handful of horses tethered to their posts, what looks like a young man walking further down the street, a female figure sweeping ash and sand off of her porch.

From the position of the sun, it looks like it’s coming up on ten am. Arthur turns away from the window to find his shirt laid out on the floor. He remembers stripping it off last night when it got too sweltering under the covers with Charles’ body next to his. Fishing out his watch from the front pocket of his shirt, he checks the time. 

It’s only then that he realizes the lump on the other side of the bed isn’t actually Charles, just a pile of balled up bed linens. 

Well, fuck.

Sticking his cigarette back in his mouth, Arthur grabs his pants from the floor. He tugs them on before maneuvering his cigarette between his fingers as to try and not singe his shirt as he pulls it over his head. 

There is definitely a logical explanation to Charles’ sudden absence that doesn’t involve a state marshal tracking them down. If that were the case, Arthur would have been led out in irons too. But Charles wasn’t exactly in any condition to go adventuring last night, not with that arm. And unless there is something Arthur doesn’t know about the man….no, no one heals that fast.

Finally in a decent state, boots and everything, Arthur heads out into the hallway. From the narrow balcony, he can already spot Charles’ broad figure below, seated at the bar with his splint arm delicately perched on the countertop as the boy from last night works his way through drying glassware with a fraying dishcloth.

“Oh!” The barkeep perks up when Arthur starts descending the stairs, “Mr. Callahan, something to eat, sir?”

In the daylight, the kid looks even younger than Arthur thought last night. Maybe younger than that Gabby girl.

Charles starts to turn in his barstool, but thinks better of it. Arthur can just barely hear the hiss of pain escaping from between Charles’ clenched teeth. No point in drawing more attention to Charles’ injury. The break is clearly still tender and Charles clearly doesn’t want others dwelling on his discomfort. After he eats something, Arthur will try the general store for some more morphine. 

“Don’t force yourself, Chester,” Arthur forces cheer into his voice, though he knows his attempts at disguising his internal intentions (is that how Mary-Beth always says it? Though that doesn’t sound quite right in Arthur’s head. Must have it wrong) are futile. Karen always calls his affectations ‘flat.’ Jenny calls him an ass.

The barkeep brings him a plate of food, the bread a little stale and the eggs a bit mealy-cold. Arthur learns the kid is called Flavian, which is a hell of a name. Flavian works for Mr. Washington, who owns both the saloon and the stables, but Mr. Washington prefers the horses to the bottle.

“ Always this quiet?” Arthur asks, not really meaning to make conversation. But if the burden of interaction is on Flavian, it keeps him from asking too many questions about Arthur and Charles and who they are and what they’re doing and where they’re headed. Besides, it is almost eleven and other than the drone of Flavian’s chatter and the occasional squeak of his rag against glass, you could hear a pin drop in this place. Where are the other patrons?

Flavian keeps in lining up his glasses, meticulous about how he sets them across the bar. As shabby as the saloon is, the boy seems to take pride in his work, and that’s nothing Arthur should be mocking. When he was younger, maybe, Arthur wouldn’t have seen the point of it. Would have thought Flavian foolish. An able-bodied man circling the edges of the civilized world like water going down the drain, and all he’s worried about are fingerprints on chipped pint glasses.

“Normally we’d have more...but I think everyone’s still shook up about last night’s fire...didn’t see the day laborers leave this morning when they usually do. And if they don’t take work, can’t take lunch…”

“Day labor?” Arthur asks.

Flavian hums, “guess you’re not from around here, of course you’re not….homesteads are small, this part of New Austin. If you can’t make it as a hand for the McFarlands, the only other choice is hoping one of the smaller ranches need help that day, chopping, building, hauling, transport, whatever. Makes for some lean weeks for some folks, but better than nothing.”

Arthur nods just enough to keep the kid going, preventing himself from talking too much, giving something about him and Charles away without meaning to. The two of them can talk upstairs, in private, or better yet, out on the road, putting miles between themselves and Gaptooth Ridge. But from the tight way that Charles holds his upper body, Arthur reckons that he’s in no condition to be riding.

Charles is long since finished with his meal, sitting silently at Arthur’s side. Arthur isn’t presumptuous enough to assume that he has a good read on Charles yet, other than the obvious. He’s a hell of a lot more capable than most anyone else that could have accompanied Arthur on this job. But his jumping at the chance to play hero is what landed them in this mess.

There’s a swift knock at the back door and Flavian springs to attention, excusing himself to go open up the rear for the delivery from the McFarlands. Arthur gives him a little wave, privately relieved that he and Charles have the opportunity to get out of there.

Without a word, they head back to the rented room, Charles leading up the stairs first, Arthur on his heels. It’s easy enough to tell that Charles isn’t as steady in his feet as he should be. He’s got his good hand gripped tight around the banister to keep from swaying on his feet. If he falls, Arthur is sure he’s got him, but hopefully, it won’t come to that.

Once they’re both behind the locked door, Charles sinks carefully into the armchair against the wall, back ramrod straight and perched just on the edge of the seat as to keep his splint away from the too-rigid armrests.

Arthur leans against the opposite wall, arms folded over his chest, waiting for Charles to speak first. When he doesn’t, Arthur finally gives in.

“You ain’t fit to travel, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Charles insists, a pained hiss coming up from the back of his throat. “I can ride.”

Arthur moves one hand just enough to grip his own jaw, days worth of stubble starting to grow in thick. He needs a shave. “Okay, alright,” Arthur can get the horses ready. Even a few hours riding will get them into safer territory than they are now.

He knows Charles isn’t actually up for travel. Any statement to the contrary is a bold-faced lie. But Arthur is so anxious to get out of Armadillo, he’s willing to take Charles at his very insincere word.

“I’ll go buy a couple of doses of morphine at the general store and get the horses ready. You...do what you need. We’ll get out of here.”

Charles nods solemnly, starting to push himself up and out of the chair with his one good arm. Arthur turns away, heading out the door so he doesn’t have to watch Charles struggle to move.

He keeps the image of the dead Lobos, the slaughtered mining guards, the foreman hunched over the payroll box, anything he can conjure from he job, at the front of his mind as he heads out of the saloon. They have to get out of New Austin. That’s what’s important.

Crossing the street swiftly, Arthur manages to avoid any additional detours on his way to the general store. The shop’s front door is starting to crack in the lower left-hand corner, from years of kicking to be let in. Arthur soon discovers that being locked out is indeed a common occurrence, when he tries the knob and it doesn’t budge. With no bell in sight, he follows in the footsteps of his predecessors, kicking at the worn corner with his boot.

“I’ma coming,” a voice greets him from behind the locked door, though it’s several moments more before he hears the latch click.

The owner isn’t terribly old, or feeble, but something about his eyes look ancient, haunted. Arthur doesn’t care what it is, really. He just needs the morphine for Charles.

He manages to grunt out his request to the shopkeeper, Mr. Clarence, right? Who is too busy eyeing him up and down to even ask Arthur what he wants. Arthur wouldn’t put him much past fifty, though his hair is unnaturally dark for his age. 

“No manners, eh?” Mr. Clarence starts fumbling with his keys, finding the right one to unlock the medicine cabinet behind the counter. “Though, I suppose after saving Gabby and all last night, you feel right entitled to your rudeness.”

Arthur only shrugs, asking how many doses are in stock? He reckons three will be enough if they ration it a little. Have to ration it or Charles won’t be able to stay upright on his horse. Though, they can always ride on Charles’ horse together and lead Arthur’s smaller one, this way Arthur can make sure Charles doesn’t fall off as they ride. Might be easier that way. But harder on the horse.

Getting what he came for, Arthur barely remembers to thank Mr. Clarence for his help. He clutches the new syringe and glass bottles awkwardly in his bare hands. Should have brought his pack. 

As he starts crossing the street again, he catches sight of Charles. Both their packs are tucked neatly on Charles’ good side. He’s sitting on the higher of the two wooden steps leading out of the saloon, Nancy seated on his injured side. Arthur is still too far away to hear what they’re talking about, but he can tell that Nancy is speaking quickly, throwing up her hands and gesturing enough for three people, as if to make up for Charles’ quietness.

But as Arthur gets closer, he can see the distinct smile on Charles lips, full enough that the space where his top and bottom teeth meet shows. Arthur hasn’t once seen Charles smile like that, though they haven’t really spent much time together at all.

When Charles sees Arthur approaching, he starts to stand, reaching down gingerly to pick up both of the bags with one hand.

Arthur doesn’t rightly know what makes him tell Charles to stop. No. One more night, then they’ll move on. He doesn’t bother trying to come up with an excuse for his change of heart, because even he’d be taking a shot in the dark when it comes to understanding his own motives. 

Might just be that the air is warm and the sun in high in the sky, catching in between the strands of Nancy’s hair like a halo. Every woman, young or old, Arthur has seen as of late looks divine. In some strange, distant way.

Charles narrows his eyes at Arthur, but doesn’t object to the change in plans. Arthur hands Nancy the morphine supplies and takes the bags from Charles. Nancy, even with her mistake last night, is still probably the better choice for administering the dose today.

Arthur doesn’t hang around to watch her work, excusing himself with a few jumbled words and hurrying back upstairs. Dropping their bags on the chair in the corner, he idles around the room long enough to give Nancy the time to work. 

After twenty minutes, he figures he can’t stay holed up all afternoon. As he goes to head back downstairs, Charles appears, opening the door before Arthur and and with Nancy on his heels. It’s not proper for a girl her age to come inside their room, and they all know it. But she waits just outside the threshold, thrusting her arms inside with the extra morphine in her fist for Arthur to take.

—

On their second night in the saloon, Arthur isn’t near tired enough to drift away peacefully. Charles keeps coming in and out of the pain, but doesn’t ask for more relief. Arthur doesn’t offer. Better to use a bit tomorrow, when they have to leave.

They have to.

The bed is big enough that they don’t come close to touching. Surprising, because Arthur can’t fathom a reason why a rural saloon like this one, run down and peeling at the edges, would need a room for rent with so much space.

But they still lay close enough that he can hear every quiet creak of Charles’ pain as his body shifts, the way his breathing changes, the tensing of his shoulders.

Charles sounds only half-awake when he asks, “Why stay a second night?” It’s not that he doubts Arthur’s decision, or even really that he’s concerned. Sounds like simple curiosity, nothing more.

“Marshals would expect for us to be running...maybe they’ll run right past. If the folks in town were gonna turn us in, would’ve happened this morning.”

Charles responds with a quiet grunt. Before too much longer, Arthur is certain he’s fallen back asleep from the pattern of his inhale, exhale, inhale.

Without noticing, his own breathing falls into step.

—

By the morning, Arthur is out of excuses, as if he really had a well-formed one to start with. They wake up earlier than the day before, despite how restless both of them were through the night. 

They collect their things in silence, then head out to the horses. Before they leave, they’ll have to ride up to the ridge and dig up the payroll. Then, straight on to West Elizabeth, fast as they can manage.

Charles refuses the morphine, at least for the time being. He insists they should ride as long as they can. And if the pain becomes unbearable, he can make his own decision then.

Outside, Nancy is waiting for them, despite the early hour. Arthur wonders how long she’s been sitting on the stoop outside, just to make sure she didn’t miss them.

“I know who you are,” she says, staring across the street rather than meeting either Arthur or Charles’ eyes. “Whole town has known since yesterday. But I don’t think no one told on you. Not after what you did for Gabby.”

Arthur doesn’t have to explain himself to her. And he doubts Charles feels the need. In silence, he pins in his pack to his saddle, testing to make sure it won’t budge while they ride. Then he takes Charles’ pack, doing the same for him.

The lack of response doesn’t keep Nancy from talking, saying what she needs to while the two outlaws get ready to depart. “Came here to ask you to take me with you….but I think I’ve lost my nerve already.” She’s got her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. “Might as well kill my ma, if I try and go...but...can you at least tell me that it’s better? That it’s like the stories? I think it must be hard, all that killing. But…” she laughs in a nervous kind of way, “I’ve always thought it must be better.”

Arthur doesn’t know this girl. Other than she knows how to clean a wound and set a bone. She looks clean, and well-fed, with shoes on her feet and ribbons in her hair. He knows that the residents of Armadillo respect her enough to recommend her as a doctor, despite her youth and inexperience and lack of training. But Arthur has known enough girls in his lifetime, not to trust in what things look like from the outside. If Nancy thinks she’s hurting here, he’ll take her at her word. But that doesn’t mean things will be better with Dutch. Just...different.

“It’s living, on your own terms,” Arthur says. He doesn’t much know how else to explain it to her. “But…”

“There’s always a ‘but,’ I know. I ain’t coming…but that doesn’t mean I won’t regret staying. Might regret going too.”

Before they leave, Charles touches her shoulder gently. Arthur doesn’t mean to listen in, when he tells her that she’s brave and wonderful and good. And no one should tell her otherwise.


	5. There was a title for this chapter but let’s just say priorities lay elsewhere

The oppressive morning heat is only multiplied by the heavy weight of Charles, lax and thick against Arthur’s back.

While the morphine hasn’t knocked Charles out entirely, they can still move faster sharing Charles’ stallion and leading Arthur’s horse. Regardless of the extra weight, they’re able to maintain a decent clip, instead of worrying about Charles rolling off his saddle.

Charles keeps the lump of his good arm clutched around Arthur’s waist as they ride, his forehead pressing down against Arthur’s shoulder as the drowsiness brought on by the drugs crashes through his body. Whenever Arthur feels Charles’ grip around him going slack, he does his best to rouse the other man back to consciousness, asking this, that, and the other about his past. While Charles remains mostly tight-lipped about it all, Arthur at least learns that his father was a Black man, his mother, an Indian, and that he’s never fit in much anywhere at all.

Arthur doesn’t find a reason to share much about himself, and Charles probably is too out of it to listen. But that’s okay, as long as they can both stay on the horse.

By noon, the sun is too high and hot to keep on riding, without running the risk of exhaustion with the horses. But Arthur can’t stop unless they find some semblance of shade. He knows his own skin is already flushed from the heat. And by the time they find an outcropping, just high enough they can slip underneath at a crouch, he’s feeling lightheaded himself. 

Charles pulls away first, though he has to wait for Arthur to help him down off of the horse. The back of Arthur’s shirt is soaked through with sweat, he can feel it clinging wettly to his damp skin as Charles rocks back to give him space. When Arthur goes to help Charles off the horse, his shirt is darkened too, from the collar all the way down to his waist, where his front was pressed against Arthur’s back.

Arthur tells Charles to go sit in the shade a spell. He’ll be there once he gets some water into the horses. They’re not in such desperate straits that they need to worry about rationing. New Austin is developed enough that they’ll be able to get water. It’s just the matter of avoiding the Marshals. Besides, another day or so of riding and they’ll be in striking distance of West Elizabeth. Home fucking free.

Charles’ stallion drinks more than his fair share, which might actually be fair in the long run since he’s the one doing the work of carrying two full-grown men. By evening, they’ll need more water. Arthur will figure it out.

Going to join Charles in the shade, Arthur turns from the horses and realizes his mistake. He’s misjudged just how tall Charles actually is, hunched over now under the outcropping of rock, back curved so he doesn’t hit his head. It’s too late now to try and find different shade, so Arthur can’t do anything other than slide in next to his companion. He feels a little guilty though, as he leans back against the cliffside with his back straight and a good inch or two of clearance over his head.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbles, a little confused now how Charles even got into position with his broken arm. Even he had to crawl a bit to get situated.

“What for?” Someone who hadn’t spent as much time with Charles might have missed how his response slightly slurs. Diction not quite as perfect as Charles’ normal speech. But for as few words as Charles chooses to share with others, they’re always so finely pronounced. Arthur wonders if it was Charles’ father who taught him to speak to proper. Or his ma. No one ever bothered when it came to Arthur.

Arthur snickers, “Never mind,” because it doesn’t matter.

Unscrewing the top of his canteen, Arthur offers water to Charles first. Charles gives the barest nod of thanks before tilting the canteen towards his lips and swallowing down, his Adam’s apple bobbing on each mouthful.

They eat enough to keep them going and wait until the sun starts to cast shadows across the desert sands again. Arthur checks his pocket watch, 2:13, and decides they need to start moving.

He asks Charles if he needs more morphine, pretty certain that the answer will be ‘no,’ despite whatever it is that Charles might be feeling. And with a grunt that affirms and denies nothing and everything, they head back to the horses.

—

As they approach the camp, Arthur pulls at his satchel. For the last three hours, Charles has managed to keep up on his horse, the two men no longer needing to share. Arthur honestly can’t tell if Charles is in agony or not. But he’s upright, despite the small dose of morphine he shot into his own veins earlier that morning when they set out on the final leg of their journey.

Arthur has already double, and triple counted the take from the payroll job and sectioned out the money into bundles. Now, as they draw close to home, he takes out the paper-wrapped lump that constitutes Charles’ share, equal to his own.

The other half of the money will go to Dutch. But it’s always in good form to pay out before reaching camp. How much he and Charles made on the job isn’t really anyone’s business but his and Charles’ and Dutch’s. And Dutch trusts Arthur enough not to question the proportion. Hell, Arthur has got no reason to skim. The gang’s savings is his livelihood too, their fates intimately tied together.

Lenny shouts out to them as they approach, waving broadly and smiling brightly. He’s still as green as they come, but Arthur likes the kid, eager, quick to learn, and smart enough to at least balk when asked to do something dangerous. Still does it, but at least his head is on straight enough to recognize a reckless course of action.

Except when it’s his own. But that’s another thing entirely.

Karen flits over to the wooden hitches as they dismount, her skirts billowing around her legs. She likes her petticoats more than the other girls. Might be because it makes her waist more petite. Hell if Arthur knows.

Arthur tries to discourage Charles from tying up his horse himself, asking Karen to give him a hand. She fusses, but not too much, over Charles’ arm in the sling, saying that they oughta see Strauss, but not with too much conviction.

It’s early afternoon and most of the men are out, Dutch included, along with Abigail and Jenny, who Karen informs them are in Blackwater shopping with Bill. Javier is just about recovered now, but rode off somewhere away from camp to do some target practice. Best not be shooting and drawing attention to where they sleep.

Arthur makes his half-hearted attempt to wrangle Charles towards the good doctor, but Charles deflects, saying that he’s fine. He’s already had expert medical care. He gives Arthur a knowing smile at that, and Arthur can’t help but laugh in response.

—

It’s four weeks before Charles can move comfortably again, though the break is nowhere close to healed. Still hurts to draw a bow, and the kickback on a rifle is too much, especially for someone less accustomed to heavier firearms.

Usually, an injury like that makes a man dead weight in the gang. But Dutch ain’t like that. Ain’t about to toss a man out just because he’s recovering. It’s what makes Dutch different, what makes him more than just a scoundrel.

And it’s not as if Charles hasn’t been contributing. Apparently, losing his bow arm temporarily just alters his hunting methods, rather than eliminating them. Jenny sits with him at the fire in the evening, helping him construct traps from twine and branches, Charles patiently explains how to weave the joints together when his dexterity fails him, Jenny following his instructions. Once the traps are done, he’s pulling small things, rabbits, squirrels, and the like, every couple of days. Helps to keep the stew-pot full and the teasing to a minimum. 

Arthur doesn’t spend much time at all with him, as much as he might miss Charles’ quiet company. There is too much that needs to be done, and too few hands to work. Dutch keeps him busy during the days, scouting missions, trips across the border and into New Hannover, a bounty that takes him up into the mountains. The reward isn’t great, but Dutch needs his fingers in the sheriff’s office in Strawberry for one reason or another. Hosea gives him little things too, requests for items needed for the camp, orders for ammunition, the usual. Arthur is out of the camp more than he is in it. And when he’s home, he’s too dog-tired to do much socializing.

But he notices Charles, for sure, how he’s fitting in. Well, it seems. And six weeks after their payroll heist, Arthur is certainly still glad that Charles is on their side, injured or not. Because he’ll make a hell of a companion, once he’s back in the saddle.

—

Dutch introduces Arthur to Micah Bell, a weedly, rough-around-the-edges sort, who nevertheless sticks his nose up as if he’s an important man. At least in his own eyes.

Arthur doesn’t take to him right away, offering his hand and finding it strange how weakly Micah returns his greeting. There’s confidence in his voice, but he touches Arthur as if he’s wretched. Not like Micah is in any better shape. Looks like he hasn’t seen a bath in some weeks.

Dutch says that Micah is joining up, if everything goes well with Javier and Bill. They’ve already located a stage as an initiation rite. Arthur should go as well, and report back on how Micah did.

Arthur knows he should keep any reservations he might have to himself, at least for the time being. If things don’t work out, he’ll give his honest assessment to Dutch, and Arthur knows that he’ll have his voice heard. Hell, Arthur put up a bit of a fight about Sean when he first arrived. But after that first job down at the border, he knew what Dutch saw in the kid. So, he’s not about to raise a fuss about Micah, until he’s seen the man in action.

Going on the stage job in a couple days means that Arthur is grounded in camp. And, honestly, he’s thankful for the chance to take his weight off his feet a bit. Fatten up a on Pearson’s stew and watch the ladies as they sew and wash and gossip. 

Tilly pulls him aside on the second afternoon and puts him to work folding, while she takes the laundry down off the line. Arthur can’t exactly tell her “no,” and besides, he likes the chatter. 

“I think Lenny is sweet on Jenny,” she laughs like a silver bell, “Lenny-Jenny, oh, I can’t tell if that’s too precious.”

Arthur tells her he hasn’t noticed.

“You don’t notice much of anything,” she counters, passing off another round of linens for Arthur to fold. 

His corners are never crisp, but neither are Tilly’s, so it’s not as if anyone is going to notice a difference.

“So, _Mr._ Morgan,” she teases, “What do you think of the newest additions? Mr. Smith and Mr. Bell?” 

Neither of the two men are in the camp. At least, they weren’t when Tilly called him away to help. Charles is out checking his traps and Arthur can’t rightly guess where Micah is. Might have left with Dutch earlier in the morning to head down to the river.

“Not polite to talk about people who can’t defend themselves,” really, it’s that Arthur thinks it unseemly to say much of anything when it comes to men he hasn’t made up his mind about.

Tilly practically cackles, folding over at the waist, “Never stopped you before.” She has a point. He’ll say whatever the hell he wants about Javier or Bill or even Sean. Especially John. But he knows them, they all know them at this point. 

“Really, though,” Tilly presses him again, “you’ve been out with Charles...what do you think?” The tenor of her voice suggests something else. Like maybe she’s interested in more than how Charles handles himself in a firefight. 

And Arthur could see it, really, Tilly dancing with Charles in the evening by the fire, treating her right, making sure she’s taken care of, while she takes care of him. They’d make a striking couple, that’s for certain. It’s a nice thought, that leaves Arthur strangely sour. Same way he’s tied in knots about Marston, maybe. How he wishes he’d treat Abigail better than he does. It’s not too late for men like John and Charles. They’ve got good women, willing to live this life with them. They’d be fucking idiots not to know that.

“I think, maybe, he’s a good man,” Arthur admits.

Tilly hums like she knows a great secret, little lines forming between her brows.

—

Arthur learns with dangerous certainty that Micah Bell doesn’t take orders from nobody who isn’t Dutch.

Arthur tells Micah to wait, and every movement of bone beneath muscle screams out a raucous “no.”

Sunlight’s fading fast as the stagecoach approaches, the Shotgun rider on high alert. The coach was supposed to clear this pass some twenty minutes prior, while the sun still offered some blanket of security. Now with the final embers setting the horizon on fire, everyone in the coach is already on edge.

But Micah doesn’t listen when Arthur tells him to hold. Instead Micah pulls sharply at his horse’s reins and setting off at a gallop. Javier and Bill curse underneath their breath, pulling their bandanas over their faces before taking off after Micah. Arthur doesn’t hold it against them. Dutch will be none too happy if Micah gets himself killed on their first real foray out.

Javier is gaining on Micah quick, but not quick enough to pull him off the goddamn horse before he’s got the attention of the coach. Startled, the driver snaps the horses to pick up speed, barreling dangerously down the incline to outrun the bandits now on their heels.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Arthur passes Bill, despite being the last member of the group to set off after Micah. But he’s not likely to catch up to Javier. Either the coach has gotta stop, or crash, or Micah is going to lead them all to their demise.

Hard to tell if it’s luck or a curse when the metal rim on the coach wheel snaps, causing the wood to buckle and break. The driver pushed to hard, not for the horses, but for the coach itself. The loss of the wheel only slows them down at first, before the front end of the coach smashes into the ground, the horses toppling over with a horrific, wet-sounding crunch.

It’s difficult to hear anything after that. The blood is pumping too loudly in Arthur’s ears. He hears Micah yelling to open the boot. There are unfamiliar voices too. Shouting and cursing.

Even after Arthur dismounts from his horse, he works through the rest of the job in a daze. They’re too far gone to head back. They have to see this through. One of the horses is still alive, breathing heavily with pained, rattling convulsions. Arthur keeps his pistol trained on the driver as he unlocks the box at the rear of the coach.

Micah grabs up the box, snatching it from the driver’s hands triumphantly. Next, he demands the Shotgun rider hands over his weapon. A detail that might have been useful at the beginning of this little encounter, rather than the end.

“Leave it,” Arthur hisses, “they’ll need it to kill the horse.”

Micah only shrugs, grabbing the shotgun himself and rounding the fallen coach to take aim at the wounded animal. But no blast follows. Micah coming back into view. “Not worth wasting the bullets, she’ll bleed out soon enough.”

They last thing Arthur needs to do is cause a scene, here and now. Get some rumor started about a group of outlaws who can’t even hold it together long enough to complete a job. So, he bites his tongue, storing all his choice words on the topic of Micah Bell to share with Dutch at a later date.


	6. The lull between soldiers and storms and the sea

Dutch isn’t in camp when they return, though he was hovering around the evening fire when Arthur and the others departed in pursuit of the stagecoach.

After the job, they had to spend near on three hours scattered across the environs around the camp, just to ensure they weren’t being followed. Arthur had sent Bill and Javier out on their own, trusting them both enough to keep their heads down and evade any suspicion.

Micah though.

Fuck.

Oh, Arthur had wanted to tell him, with every fiber of his being, to fuck the fuck off. Get out of his goddamn sight and don’t show his face again. But Arthur has enough experience, not with Micah, but with men, to know that’s a hell of an invitation to have the local authorities raid the camp.

Without a doubt, the Sheriff in Blackwater knows where they are. And he mostly turns a blind-eye to their activities. As long as they don’t cause much trouble to those of power, prestige, and influence. Oh, robbing from the elite of Blackwater is fine. It’s bothering them that’s the problem.

But if a man like Micah gets it into his head to cause a ruckus, he’ll go to the U.S. Marshals. And they don’t care one way or another about keeping the peace, what’s right and what’s fair. They care about the letter of the law and nothing else. More trouble than they’re worth.

So, instead of cutting Micah loose, Arthur had to endure nearly three hours of the bastard’s company. They’d tucked into an abandoned shack a little ways east of the job. Arthur kept his eyes on both Micah and the windows, waiting around to see if the sheriff was likely to make the trip and investigate.

But nobody came, and Arthur dragged Micah back to camp. 

Just pleased with himself, Micah was. Big smiles and holding out his hand for his share. Arthur told him wait for Dutch. But now Dutch ain’t here.

Bill and Javier ain’t in camp either. But Arthur isn’t worried about them. Might have decided to track down south to Blackwater. Be seen in the saloon and with the girls too pretty for their ugly mugs. Could always claim later that they were there the whole night of the robbery. Easy alibi.

Micah holds out his hand again, when it’s obvious they won’t find Dutch. 

“Dutch said do the job, get paid. I can’t reckon what’s complicated here,” Micah smiles, his yellowed teeth verging on a sneer. 

Arthur isn’t about to fight Micah in the confines of the camp. And especially within shouting distance of Miss Grimshaw. But he also ain’t paying out when Micah nearly got them all killed in the process. Oh, he’ll get his money, that’s for sure. Because Dutch will be fair in his judgement. What Arthur is worried most about is paying Micah what he’s owed and then him running to the Marshals anyway.

Instead of handing over the take, Arthur gestures for Micah to follow, “Let’s see if Molly knows where he’s at.” He does his best to sound disarming. Like he’s exhausted with Micah’s antics, instead of furious. Fury gets him nowhere. He may not be much of an actor, truth be told. But he’s tired enough that he doesn’t have to fake that much.

Micah looks like he might protest, but before he can lay another curse between his lips, Charles comes up behind him. With a steady hand, Charles grabs ahold of Micah’s shoulder from behind, his thumb laying flat across the back of his neck. Arthur gets an eyeful of exactly how big Charles’ hand really is. Doesn’t matter really that only one of them is of any use at the moment. The pressure at Micah’s throat keeps him quiet.

“Don’t worry,” Charles says, “Dutch will pay you,” he squeezes, putting friendly pressure against Micah’s skin. “You can trust Arthur. I promise you.”

Roused suddenly from his shock, Micah lifts up his hand, batting Charles’ fingers away with foolish confidence. If Charles were prone to anger, like some men, he could obliterate Micah in an instant. The girls were whispering the other day that Charles used to be a boxer. A real prize-fighter. Arthur doesn’t doubt it.

“Hands off,” Micah bites, slapping Charles’ hand away. He murmurs something else underneath his breath. Arthur has a pretty good idea what he says. And that’s a matter for Dutch as well. They’re all equals here. And that’s a fact.

But, despite his protests, Micah at least trots after Arthur as they go in search of Molly. Arthur can’t exactly knock on her tent door, but calls out to her, hoping that she’s not in one of her moods at the moment.

She calls out from inside the tent, but doesn’t deign to show her face. Arthur at least makes out that Dutch has gone into Blackwater on business. And if the two of them find him there, they’d better ensure that this business doesn’t include a dancing girl.

There’s enough venom in her accented voice that Arthur won’t hazard another question. But he’s left with one of two options: keep Micah in camp until Dutch returns, or ride the bastard into town.

The trip between the camp and Blackwater ain’t exactly short, especially when traveling after dark. Arthur exhales loudly in exasperation, dropping his head and shaking, trying to clear the fog from his brain. No, taking Micah to Dutch tonight isn’t an option. He doesn’t even know for certain that Dutch is in Blackwater.

Instead, he reaches into his sack and pulls out Micah’s portion, shoving the bills into Micah’s grubby hand. “We talk about this when Dutch gets back,” Arthur reminds Micah, before he releases the money into Micah’s clenched fingers.

With an exaggerated, mocking bow, Micah bids Arthur goodnight. If it’s all the same to Arthur, he’s going to enjoy his bit of rest.

Arthur wishes he had someone, anyone to back him up in this moment. But Dutch is in Blackwater and Hosea has been in Strawberry for an age. There’s no one in the camp that he can trust with his frustrations. Oh, the ladies are lovely to talk to, but not about this. He can’t worry them with this.

There’s nothing more to be done tonight. 

As he hangs his hat on the hook beside his cot, he idly wonders what happens if he just...walks. If he leaves this life behind. It’s not a proposition that he takes seriously for any length of time. Just, from where his wagon and tent sits just a ways up the ridge from the fire, he can see out across West Elizabeth, and he thinks, maybe for just a second, that Mary could be wrong. That maybe he could give this up.

Arthur hears footsteps behind him, slow and heavy. Turning, he catches sight of Charles, a tin cup in his good hand. Without a word, Charles reaches out, offering the cup to Arthur. “Moonshine,” Charles smiles at him, “Davey wouldn’t let me refuse, but I’m not much for it.”

Huffing, Arthur takes the cup, motioning for Charles to follow him just a couple of feet to the peak of the rise. Arthur tips the cup over the edge, letting the vile shit drain out, “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He’s not a teetotal, not by a fucking longshot. But, given the choice, Arthur likes to have some vague notion of the origin and properties of the poisons he consumes.

Charles laughs as Arthur pours the liquor out, joking it’s better Arthur than Charles on the wrong end of Davey’s ire.

“How’s the arm?” Arthur asks. Some of the time, he sees Charles in the sling. But other times, like now, he holds it close, without additional support. 

“Another month, maybe two, before the pain is gone. Been managing, keeping busy. Don’t worry. You’ll have me back.”

Arthur admits, truthfully, “I’ll be glad for it.”

There’s not much to look at in the darkness. But the wind cutting across the terrain is nice. Calms Arthur’s nerves a bit. Even if he hadn’t recognized himself as being on edge before that point.

It’s not appropriate for him to talk about what happened with Micah. At least, not before he and Dutch run through the details. Maybe this ends up an amusing story, when Dutch decides it’s best to just put Micah in the ground. Then Arthur and Charles can joke about this. 

Charles reaches over to take the metal cup back from Arthur’ s hand, thanking him mockingly, but with a familiar fondness, for the drink.

Arthur jokes, “be waiting for the next round, for sure.”

—

Mid-morning comes and Dutch is still nowhere to be seen. Arthur resolves he might as well head into town, try and locate Dutch himself. Micah has kept mostly quiet through the morning, though at one point, he might’ve gotten too close to Mary-Beth for her liking. Arthur would have intervened, but Miss Grimshaw watches her girls like a hawk and swept in to sold Micah about his manners.

As Arthur is saddling his horse, Abigail walks over, Jack’s little hand in hers. She asks, if it’s nothing about business, if Arthur might want to take Jack into town with him. The boy has been cooped up in camp for quite awhile, and seeing some different scenery might help with his melancholy.

What is actually going to help the boy’s heart-sickness is his father paying him any sort of mind. But Arthur has heard Abigail and John go at it recently. So that’s a lost fucking cause.

He tells her it ain’t no trouble. He’s only going to meet with Dutch. If there’s anything else she or the others need, he can stop at the shops?

Reaching down, he grabs hold of Jack’s hand, hoisting him up with ease and nestling him into the front of the saddle. He’s used to riding with Abigail, and dutifully holds on tight to the horn as soon as he’s in place.

“Ain’t nothing I need,” Abigail says, brushing her hair away from her face, “thanks for taking him.” She reaches over to pat Jack’s cheek, telling him to be a good boy. He doesn’t say a word, but nods firmly, his soft hair bouncing around his head.

Arthur saddles up, riding out of camp. Jack doesn’t need much in terms of help staying on, but Arthur wraps his arm around him just in case. Abigail would have him strung up if anything happened to her boy.

About a mile down the path, Arthur spots another horse approaching. He doesn’t think much of it, just two riders crossing along the road. As the distance between them narrows, Arthur realizes that it’s Charles, coming back from setting traps in the early hours of the morning.

“Hey there,” Arthur greets him, pulling up so that his mare slows. 

“Where you off to?” Charles asks, reaching out to muss up Jack’s hair. Jack is already fond of Charles, who has the patience to sit with him while he practices his reading. Most of the men, Arthur included, can’t settle down enough to sit with him. So it’s always either Uncle or Charles.

“Into Blackwater, hoping to find Dutch. He didn’t get back this morning.”

Charles nods, “I need to check on a package. Would you mind the company?”

“Not at all,” Arthur responds, and they pick up the trail.

As they ride, Jack asks Charles a heap of questions. Apparently, he’s reading a series of wildlife guides that Bill found for him. The books are filled with maps of the whole country, where to find birds, fish, and game. Jack wants to know if Charles has seen this critter or the other. Apparently, he’s given Charles a list of animals to watch out for while he’s setting traps, and is supposed to report back if he finds them.

“Not yet,” Charles smiles, “but I promised, didn't I?”

Blackwater is bustling with activity, the streets crowded with wagon traffic and couriers and those just out for a stroll. They have to enter the town single-file to wind their way through the traffic, Arthur leading them off to the saloon. 

They’ll try the saloon first, see if they can pick up Dutch’s trail. If not, they might have to ask the sheriff. As much as Dutch insists they have nothing to fear from the local authorities, Arthur would rather avoid sniffing too close around the law so soon after a job.

Charles offers to stick with them until they locate Dutch. The post office will be open awhile longer, and he’s in no rush to get back. Arthur accepts the offer, keeping Jack’s hand in his as Charles opens the saloon door. It ain’t no place for children, really. But the same can be said of most everyplace Jack goes.

The bartender doesn’t pay them much mind, even though they’ve shown up with a kid in tow. Arthur vaguely recognizes him. Dutch has introduced him to just about everyone who works here, but that doesn’t mean Arthur can keep them straight.

Still, he heads straight for the bar. There’s an empty seat and he picks up Jack and deposits him on the barstool. Someone’s playing the piano, but Arthur doesn’t bother to look and see who.

“Let me guess,” the bartender jokes, “whiskey straight?” He smiles at Jack. An older man of about fifty, he clearly is already smitten with little Jack. The bar isn’t particularly crowded, and the volume of conversation is low. While Jack probably shouldn’t be in here, there are worse environments for a kid.

The bartender dips down under the counter, reappearing with a metal canister. He takes an empty glass, and fills it halfway with milk from the pitcher. Handing off the glass to Jack, he observes, “You’re one of Dutch’s boys, ain’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t much think of himself as Dutch’s ‘boy’ anymore. Though there was one point when that was probably true. And the bartender probably doesn’t mean much by it.

“You seen him, last night?” Arthur asks.

“I wasn’t here,” the bartender admits. “Wouldn’t know. Fella, Francis, comes in about an hour. He was working last night.”

Arthur thanks him for the information, telling Jack to hurry up with his drink. He reaches into his coat to grab a ten-cent piece for the milk, but the bartender waves him off. 

“No one ever asks for it after noontime.”

Jack says his thank-yous, politely passing the glass back to the bartender. Arthur helps him back off the stool and leads him out. Charles is nowhere to be seen, though they entered the saloon together.

Might as well check the post office. Maybe catch Charles after he’s gotten his package. Arthur plans to come back to the saloon in about an hour, if he still can’t find Dutch. That’s a lot of excitement for Jack to handle in one day, so he might send him home with Charles.

Charles’ horse is still in front of the saloon when they step out, and Arthur wonders if he just didn’t look well enough for him inside. He leaves Jack on the stoop, telling him not to leave with nobody, while he checks for Charles.

But as he turns back inside, Charles emerges, his hat held tightly in one hand. His cheeks are flushed red under the dark hue of his skin, and when Arthur tries to get a look at him, he averts his eyes.

“No Dutch, I take it?” Charles asks.

“Naw, let’s go get your package. See if anyone else has seen him round.”

Charles nods, putting his hat back on his head and going to untie his horse. They lead their horses rather than riding them, though Arthur puts Jack up on the saddle by himself. He can’t keep up otherwise.

At the post office, Charles asks the clerk about Dutch, giving a decent description of his face and manner of dress. The clerk answers that he knows the man, but hasn’t seen him for a week. Arthur has a pretty good idea of when that was. Some of the ladies had ordered new capes for the winter from the catalog. 

Arthur lifts Jack up in his arms so that he can read the notices posted on the board, requests for animal carcasses in “pristine” condition, a heartfelt plea for a runaway girl to return home, a sale on lumber, here in town. Jack reads them aloud to Arthur while Charles waits for the clerk to find his package in the storeroom. Arthur doesn’t intend to be nosy, keeping his attention on Jack’s ringing voice, rather than trying to get an eyeful of what Charles has got.

Whatever it is, it’s small enough to fit in Charles’ satchel. Because there’s no sign of the box when Charles says they’re ready to go. There’s still some time before the evening barkeep will be in, so they might ask at the Sheriff's instead. But the choice is up to Arthur.

They’re exiting the post office when the man in question greets them with open arms, his vest buttons done up one-wrong and his hat slightly askew. When he sees Jack, his demeanor shifts just a bit. Less open and gregarious, a bit more proper. Setting a good example for the boy.

“Didn’t realize my absence would be such a concern,” he comments. “I wasn’t even gone a full day.”

“Charles,” Arthur hopes it’s not too much to ask, “do you think you can see Jack back to his mother? I need to speak with Dutch.”

Charles responds it’s “No trouble,” but concedes, “if I you could help him onto the horse.”

Arthur grabs Jack up, seating him firmly in the saddle. He’s still not too big that Abigail won’t be able to get him back off when Charles makes it to camp.

Both Arthur and Dutch wave goodbye, Jack giving a little wave back to them.

“So,” Dutch sighs, “what is it that couldn’t wait?”

Arthur has run through what he wanted to say a dozen times already. But no question is more important than, “how exactly did you come across Micah Bell?”


	7. He’s your father/He’s a parasite

Dutch doesn’t answer him at first, instead slotting his hands into the pockets of his slacks and nodding in the direction of the river. Makes Dutch look somewhat broader, more imposing than his slim frame actually is. “Getting close to noon-time now, breeze off the water will be nice.”

Arthur sighs, adjusting the brim of his hat to keep his nose out of the sun. Karen will tease him if he starts freckling again. Reaching out, he gestures for Dutch to take the lead, always willing to follow. Arthur leaves his horse behind at the post office. No doubt, they’ll have to come back into town before returning to camp. Usually you can spot the Count a mile away. But Arthur hasn’t seen him all morning.

Dutch doesn’t start up his explanation until they’ve taken their first few steps along the river bank. This time of day, the pier is mostly empty, the laborers on their lunch break and idle townsfolk keeping out of the heat. Gives the two of them a little privacy, at least. And Dutch is right, the breeze is nice. So is the quiet sound of the water slowly lapping against the wooden posts sunk down into the riverbed. The smell is less pleasant, but you can’t have everything.

“Never did tell you how Micah and I first met, did I?” Dutch starts, reaching for his breast pocket and the pack of cigarettes he keeps there. 

Arthur fumbles around in his satchel, fishing out his lighter. He and Dutch exchange, Arthur’s lighter for an offered, unlit cigarette, then returning the lighter so that Arthur can light his after Dutch finishes with his.

“No, don’t suppose you did,” Arthur concedes.

Dutch paints the picture with his voice, he always does, of a rowdy night in a dingy roadside drinking haunt. Place a little north of Strawberry, not quite up in the mountains yet. But far enough into the foothills that there was an evening chill in the air. Name’s not important, “but the girls were pretty and the men’s pockets loose. You know how it goes, don’t you Arthur? These lovely rural treasures. Don’t know their own beauty, yet. But you also know I’m a committed man,” he’s not, but Arthur doesn’t fault him for it. Doesn’t have a leg to stand on, there. “I didn’t lay a hand on any of them. Maybe that was my mistake.

“Won a little money at first, nothing much. Kept my glass close at hand and my winnings where everyone could see. Aw,” Dutch shakes his head, “I wasn’t looking for trouble. Or even a big pot. But I was lucky that night. And one of the pretty girls wanted to sit on my knee. Coal-colored skirts all the way down to her ankles. The fabric was thick and cheap, but warm.” Dutch has this way, of telling tales from a week ago that sound more like cherished histories. “Didn’t lay a hand on her. Don’t think that was the problem, anyway. Think I was just a strange face that won too much.

“So a man, big beefy lad, with narrow eyes and a soft chin, stands up from his seat. Hands already curled into fists. I already know things are headed for a fight, and fast. But I didn’t want to cause problems for the barkeep. Not his fault the regulars felt like getting riled up that night.

“But then, just as I can feel this lad pulling back, readying his strike to send me clear to meet my maker, this beleaguered, patchwork canvas of a man steps forward. Grabs the giant brute’s wrist and pulls him back.”

Arthur can’t help but laugh, “Wait, which one is Micah again?”

Dutch smiles at him, “Listen, Arthur, I know he’s impulsive and hot-headed. It was a dumb shit idea to try and intervene in an argument that got nothing at all to do with him. And for a stranger, no less. Hell, Micah didn’t even stop the fight. We all still got in a row after that. Didn’t even leave me with enough of my winnings to give the barkeep something for penance. But there’s promise in Micah. He’ll be true and loyal. He just needs a little guidance.”

Scoffing, Arthur means to outline and argue each and every way that Micah has already put himself, Bill, Javier, and the rest of the gang in danger with his reckless actions. But instead of the response he’s been deliberating over since last night, he blurts out, “Micah is a jackass.”

Dutch laughs, patting Arthur on the shoulder, “you used to say the same about John. Hell, you still say the same about John!”

It’s not the same, though. It’s not the same and Dutch should know that. John might be dumb as rocks, irresponsible, and a goddamn deadbeat, but he’s also proven himself in moments of blind, terrifying genius. More than that, John, despite all his years running with Dutch, is still young. Young enough that being an idiot might be s liability, but not an insurmountable one. Micah Bell has no such excuse.

“He nearly got us killed,” Arthur hisses, realizing he’s got to be careful with his words. The docks still aren’t densely populated, but he’d rather not talk about the business with the coach within earshot of the authorities. “He’s got no patience, and even less sense.”

“Then help him, Arthur,” Dutch urges. “There’s something about him. Something good. I know it. Have I steered us wrong before?”

Arthur has to admit, “No, no, Dutch, you haven’t.”

Dutch breaks out into a smile, pausing their walk just long enough to put out the last of his cigarette underneath his boot. “Have faith, Arthur. Not in Micah,” he clarifies, “but in me.”

Swallowing hard, Arthur looks, however briefly, into the eyes of the man who is more his father than any man has ever been. And he swallows again, this time, trying to wash away his sticky doubts about Micah with thin saliva and nothing else, (except his love for Dutch).

“Alright,” Arthur will try.

—

In the early hours of the morning, Arthur takes his instant coffee alone. Pearson is awake, Strauss and Miss Grimshaw too. But most everyone else is still asleep, lulled by the cool wind that blows through until midday this time of year..

He works the embers in the firepit, bringing the flames up high enough that Pearson can use the heat to warm up breakfast. But in the meantime, Arthur boils water for himself, setting aside the excess in the kettle for Susan, who alternates between tea and coffee so frequently that Arthur has long since given up on guessing which one she’ll want on a given day.

Arthur stirs his cup with the wrong end of a mangled metal spoon. Some time ago, it got caught under a wagon wheel and nearly snapped with the pressure. Walking behind the wagon, Arthur noticed it in the dirt, picked it up and wiped it down. It’s no good as a spoon anymore, but works well for whisking his morning coffee until the powder mostly dissolves.

Sitting out on the ridge behind his cart, he watches the shallow valley below the camp. West Elizabeth is still quiet, sometimes. But it won’t be for much longer. That’s supposed to be the natural state of things, isn’t it? This unrelenting push from east to west? It’s what his ancestors did, his father, and now him. Man spanning out across the frontier, trying to slip through the cracks of civilization and into the wilds where he belongs. Arthur figures, he’s got no other choice. But civilization chases them down, swallows up the territory spread out before them. Like a plague. Eventually, Arthur won’t have anywhere else to run.

Charles comes up quietly behind him, taking a seat next to Arthur in the grass without asking if he can sit down. He’s got a warm cup of something cradled in his hands. Underneath his fingernails are clean, his long hair tied up off his shoulders.

“Want to come with me to check the traps?” Charles asks, taking a sip from his cup. It’s coffee. Arthur can smell it as it sloshes around.

“Sure,” Arthur responds. He’s got nothing in terms of other plans.

It’s still minutes more before they’re both done with their coffee. Charles doesn’t force conversation. They watch the expanse before them, a stray wagon in the distance, like a tiny insect.

When Arthur was a child, he once saw the locust come. His family weren’t farmers, far from it. And hell, his mother was long gone by then. But Arthur was still small, and his father, though a scoundrel, must have seen some sort of value in his child, pulling Arthur across the plains as he searched for his wealth in the pockets of other men.

He would leave Arthur temporarily in the care of whoever would take him. Homely washerwomen, stoic prostitutes, the lady of the home still waiting on a baby of her own and more than willing to give a ‘nice’ boy with blue eyes and fair hair a wash, while his father “searched for work.” And it was in one of these proper, if modest farm houses, that Arthur watched as the dark, terrifying cloud of locust came.

Can’t remember the name of the woman now. Childless, with a sturdy husband and equally sturdy ranch hands. Arthur remembers one grabbing the hem of her yellow dress when they thought they were alone. But on that day, Arthur played outside while the wife sat on the porch, clumsily knitting shawls for winter.

The sky went dark, a cloud dashing with unnatural speed over the horizon, so loud that Arthur barely heard her scream. The grasshoppers came in like a storm, wild and thick. The pests took only minutes to descend over the family’s crops in a suffocating blanket of chirping bodies. 

She cried out for her husband first, screaming in horror as he lumbered back towards the house, trying to bat the beasts out of his clothes and hair. They were in Arthur’s hair too, scratching at his face, but not biting. Like they knew he wasn’t food. But no one cried out for him.

The husband must have grabbed the boy on his way back into the house. Scooped him up from the swarm and tossed Arthur’s little body through the door. After that, he’d stomped and cursed, pulling mangled bodies away in clumps and crushing them under his boots. His wife helped him, tearing the tiny monsters away, before turning her attention to the child.

The house was dark. None of the lamps were lit with the noontime sun, once streaming through the windows. But now the sky was black, and they could barely see their noses.

Once the lamp in the front room was lit. The wife started sweeping up the remains dragged inside the house. Arthur remembers her crying when she was finished. Because what was the point? Come the winter, they would starve. And it wouldn’t matter if her doorway was swept or not.

Two weeks later, Arthur’s father came to the barren fields. There were still loctus strewn across the path up to the farmhouse. The birds had already grown outrageously fat on the insects, gorging themselves until they were sick. The farm hands had been dismissed and the husband had left for town, hoping to find work to earn a wage, scrounge together enough supplies to stave off starvation.

Lyle Morgan paid the family a half dollar for watching his boy for the month. Greedily, the woman snatched the meager coins up. Now, Arthur thinks that his father really robbed them blind. Could have given her a little more for her trouble, when he saw the state of their fields, the judgement that had been brought down on them.

But she must have not thought much at all of that. She had fifty-cents more and a mouth less to feed than she did the day before. 

Arthur’s father told him to wait on the porch, while he finished up thanking the wife.

“I’m ready when you are,” Arthur says, downing the last of his morning coffee. 

—

They take it slow as they ride into the woods. Arthur follows as Charles directs them through the brush. Coming upon a little open clearing in the otherwise dense thatch of trees, Charles suggests they leave the horses for a bit of grazing in the shade. From here on out, it’s easier to navigate on foot.

Dismounting, Arthur pats his horse’s neck. Still doesn’t have a name for her, but he’ll settle on one before too much longer. Naming isn’t the sort of thing that should be rushed.

Charles gestures for Arthur to follow, dipping back into where the forest thickens again. Not for the first time, Arthur admires how quietly Charles moves, in comparison to his own heavy boots. But, hell, Arthur tries to keep quiet. Though, there always seems to be something small and delicate underneath his boots ready to be crunched.

Coming up to the first trap, Charles squats down to get a look at what he’s caught. A plump rabbit, still alive inside the wooden cage. Upon smelling the two men, the little creature starts to panic, skittering around in the trap and trying to find a way out, though it must have exhausted itself the night before, looking for means of escape. 

Charles is quick about it, stabbing the critter through with his knife to put it out of its misery. “The live traps are better…” Charles explains, “you can release the babies and they don’t attract scavengers quite as much. Don’t work too well in bear country. They’ll just smash the traps. But even coyotes have trouble getting in.”

Arthur is at least somewhat familiar with the general principle. Even if he wasn’t, Charles’ explanation makes sense. Charles shoves the whole rabbit into his pack, once the bleeding slows. Two more of the traps are empty, but the last one has a squirrel. Squirrel meat tends to be tough and gamey, but it’s better than nothing. And stewing for hours in Pearson’s pot will render the meat...well...edible.

“Thanks for coming with me,” Charles says, swinging his leg back over his horse. Arthur can’t detect any signs of lingering discomfort in the way Charles handles himself.

“Not at all,” Arthur replies, “always a pleasure.”

Charles smiles back at him.

Arthur isn’t sure why he asks. Other than looking out across West Elizabeth this morning, he’d thought about the loctus for the first time in years. What the woman had said to him in the lamplight, in between her tears.

“Do you think we’re meant to survive out here? Or it’s hubris?”

At first, Charles narrows his eyes, then bursts into light, friendly laughter, “I’m maybe not the right person to ask, Arthur.”

Realizing how silly he must sound, Arthur mounts his horse. They ride in silence for a bit, before Charles speaks again.

“You know, I think men are meant to survive anywhere. Under any conditions. I...I don’t think you, or I, would be here today, if that wasn’t the case. Maybe it is hubris. But maybe, sometimes, that’s okay.”

“I don’t think you’re making any sense, Charles,” or maybe Arthur is just too dumb to follow. That’s always a distinct possibility. He knows that he’s not bright. Hosea tried with him, he really did. But not enough of the old man’s scholarship really took.

“I don’t think your question made much sense either, Arthur.”

Arthur realizes he likes how Charles says his name.

— 

Hosea returns from his long trip with a basket full of fresh-caught fish and a hefty bundle of cash tucked in his satchel. His hair has been freshly trimmed and his jawline free of stubble. He and Dutch disappear inside Dutch’s tent, Molly unceremoniously ushered out while the men talk. 

Arthur comes up to the flap, asking if he should come in and join?

Hosea calls back, “Of course, my boy,” and Arthur follows them inside the tent. 

The sounds of Bill, Sean, Lenny, and Javier in high spirits still ring in his ears. Karen calls out in glee, though Arthur doesn’t catch what she says. They’re busy roasting a parcel of the fish. The rest, Pearson will smoke and dry.

Setting out to distribute the money, Dutch asks Arthur if twenty dollars will be enough to restock their ammunition reserves and procure the raw material for explosives. Arthur asks why they need dynamite and Dutch corrects him, “Not dynamite, something else. I need an explosion, but not dynamite.”

Dutch won’t tell him what it is he’s exactly after. But it’s not as if he won’t share the details with Arthur once he’s ready. “I won’t know if it’s enough. Never tried to buy other explosives before.”

“But you know someone?” Dutch asks.

“I know where to get ammunition,” Arthur corrects, “and I can ask. My supplier might know someone, if he doesn’t have anything in stock.”

Dutch seems to consider what Arthur says for a minute.

“But dynamite, I can get you,” Arthur reminds him.

Shaking his head, Dutch says, “Nevermind.” He flips through the cash in his hand, separating it out into two piles of ten dollars. He gives Arthur one pile, slipping the other ten into his own pocket.


	8. Steps forward and steps backwards, now step, step, dive

Arthur is just fine letting the fire die down, no need to keep it alight now. The girls are already in bed, though he thinks he hears Abigail still softly fussing with Jack behind the canvas flap of her tent. She tries not to be too harsh with the boy, coddles him, maybe. But what would Arthur know about that? How to raise a child...He’s certain Abigail is doing the best that she can manage. Sure as hell he thinks that Jack is gonna turn out better than his father. Abigail is gonna make damn sure.

Sometimes, not too often, Arthur thinks maybe he should make right what that fool John got so wrong. But that ain’t fair to Abigail. Despite everything, she wants John. Nothing Arthur can do about that, really.

The end of Arthur’s cigarette ends up burning brighter than the fading embers. Quiet crackling bursts further and further apart as the minutes stretch out.

Dutch hasn’t been around all day, still gone now. Working a job with Bill and a handful of the others. Something about one of the ferry boats coming into Blackwater in the evening. Arthur is a bit sketchy on the details, but he remembers Micah, grinning broadly behind Dutch’s shoulder. Lips stretched so broad that his mustache started bunching up around his nose from smiling. Dutch wouldn’t tell Arthur anything more about it. 

Next to Arthur, Charles leans back against the long, rough-hewed log they’ve used as a fireside bench the last few months at camp. Most all of the bark has been picked away, on account of one of Davey’s bad habits. His usual choice in seats is obvious, the wood underneath where his hands would sit rubbed raw until it shines like fine china. But Davey has managed to leave his mark most everywhere around the camp. 

They’d got to talking after dinner, Arthur and Charles, if you could call it that. Call it talking. Long stretches of silence, except for the pops and snaps of the fire. Pearson enlisting their help for five minutes to move the stew pot back to his wagon. Then the two of them returning to the occasional exchange of detail-barren stories.

The last tale Charles told, maybe fifteen minutes ago now, still sticks in Arthur’s head. About how before his mother was taken, Charles’ father used to comment about his son’s smile. How it was a perfect replica of his mother’s. After she was gone, he never mentioned it again. Too painful.

Arthur never met Charles’ mother. Of course he didn’t. But he’s seen Charles smile. And he’s not sure how anyone could fail to notice how well it suits his face.

“I’m sure she was a good woman,” he says in response. But Arthur tends to believe all women are good. 

Honestly, Arthur could drift off right here, the cool night air spun through the hills and the distant sound of coyotes crying in the valley. Too timid to get close to camp, but too hungry to stray too far. The steady beat of Charles breathing next to him; Abigail’s muted voice, lulling Jack to sleep.

Glancing to his side, Arthur checks to see if Charles is even still awake. And it’s hard to tell at first. Pearson’s lamp it still lit in the distance, but they’re not getting much light at all from the fire anymore. Charles’ eyes are dark to start with, but in the dim camp, it takes Arthur’s vision a moment to adjust and find the whites. 

“What is it?’ Charles asks. Awake then, to notice Arthur staring. 

“Nothing,” Arthur brushes off Charles’ concern. It’s nothing.

Except it’s the sound of hooves, beating against the dirt, coming up the narrow path between the trees that shelter the camp from the main road. Arthur starts at the noise, reaching to his hip for his sidearm. Charles reacts just as quickly, scrambling to his feet.

Uncle’s voice cuts through the darkness, calling out from where he was keeping watch to the approaching rider. Bill yells back that they have to leave. Now. The rest of the gang is right behind him. And in pursuit, the Pinkertons. 

There isn’t enough of a heartbeat for Arthur to really consider what is going on. Jobs have gone sideways before. Nothing is ever perfect. But Dutch and Hosea have taught each and every one of them to be measured, cautious, in both their dealings with the law and with leading the authorities to their camps. 

But it’s Dutch’s voice now that slices through the night, screeching Arthur’s name in panic. They have to fight. They have to run.

They’re in no position to move the wagons, unless Dutch plans on leaving everything behind. And if the Pinkertons are as close as Bill says, there’s no time to pack up their supplies. They’ll have to turn and fight them back, buy them enough space to get everyone safely out once the first wave are cleared out.

Bill’s horse crashes through the camp, still yelling hoarse for everyone to get up. Get up, GET UP. Arthur is already on his feet, racing towards his wagon for his rifle. Charles is on his heels, shouting for a shotgun and some shells to feed the gun. He’s going to try and get in behind the Pinkertons, make them think they’re being flanked. Maybe he can fool them into thinking the gang’s numbers are greater than they really are.

Breathe, Arthur, breathe, he whispers to himself. Popping open his foot locker, Arthur reaches for his shotgun first, shoving it against Charles’ chest. Charles touches Arthur’s shoulder, before jogging back towards his own tent.

Dutch storms into the center of camp, the rest of the men close behind. His face is flushed red, so bright that it doesn’t matter that it’s dark. “Keep the lamps out,” he snaps, “make them think there’s more of us than there is.”

Arthur says nothing, because there’s no time to talk. And words ain’t about to help them now. Racing towards the road, he shoves another rifle into Dutch’s gut as they pass. After a moment’s hesitation, Dutch follows after Arthur, getting into position to hold each side of the narrow path into camp.

In the confusion, Arthur has lost track of the others, though he can simply hear shouting. Bill’s voice is the loudest, barking at the girls to get up, to scatter while they can. Karen shouts back that she isn’t turning tail. No goddamn way. A second voice, Jenny, rings crystal clear, that she can hold a gun, good as any of the men. Hosea shouts for Miss Grimshaw, she has vital decisions ahead of her that only she can make.

Arthur breathes in, breathes out, listens for the approaching clatter of hooves in the packed dirt. It’s dark enough along the path that the Pinkertons shouldn’t see him and Dutch tucked in along the weedy trees, unless they’ve got the sense to look down as they come barreling through. There isn’t much in the way of cover, but sometimes, the best protection in surprise. 

It barely registers, when the first horse and rider rush past. With the kind of precision only developed through years of coordination, Arthur and Dutch let the first Pinkerton through, before opening fire on the second and third in line.

The horses scream as they’re grazed by bullets. Arthur is less concerned with a clean shot, more focused on knocking the Pinkertons off balance, shaking the very foundations of their certainty in their own skills. 

He can’t stay here along the path. He needs time and space to reload his rifle, try and find a bit of cover to save his hide as the next Pinkerton skids in on his horse. Arthur drops flat to his belly, quick as he can, hoping to dodge the unwieldy shots fired in desperation. By some miracle, it works. And the roar of the shotgun that follows tells Arthur that Charles is on the move too.

The only other way into the camp is through the ravine on the other side, and that requires a near-vertical climb at a two-meter stretch. Not so far that it causes much of a problem for a healthy man or woman. But it’ll prevent the Pinkertons from coming on horse through the channel, and creates a bottleneck where they’ll be easy pickings if they try to climb.

So it all comes down to holding the main path. Eliminating the Pinkertons before more can be sent in from Blackwater. If the whole lot of them aren’t enroute already. An hour, an hour is all they need to throw what they can into the wagons and grab a head start enough to lose the Pinkertons through the foothills. This can be salvaged. Arthur has to believe it can.

There are fewer Pinkertons than Arthur initially thought. Dutch hisses into the darkness for Arthur to hold them back, while the others try to get the wagons ready. Counting eleven corpses in all, Arthur can’t guess how many are still on their way. Dutch probably can’t reckon either.

He can’t take his eyes off the path, but behind him, he can hear Jenny wail. Took a shot through her gut. Miss Grimshaw says there’s no time to fuss over it now. Barking at Jack, she tells the boy to hold a cloth to Jenny’s belly. “That’s it, press as hard as you can,” while his mama helps tear down the tents.

There’s movement in the distance, a rustling of the shrubs on the other side of the road. Barely perceptible. Arthur readies his rifle, before realizing it must be Charles, moving into a better position to keep eyes on the trail from a second angle. Charles being there doesn’t let Arthur breathe any easier. But there’s something there. Something that makes his hands shake less.

Bill shouts at Arthur to hurry up, make sure that they packed his wagon and the ammunition safe enough before they pull out. Grabbing the rifle from Arthur’s hands, Bill switches places with him, keeping watch while Arthur double checks that the most delicate of the munitions are secure enough for travel.

—

Arthur rides on ahead, Jack seated securely in front of him on the horse. He keeps his arm around Jack’s waist, and tells Jack to hold on tight to the mare’s mane.

Up until an hour ago, the boy was riding in the cart with Davey, tucked into one corner, to keep out of the way. His legs are still too short to keep up with the wagons if he walks, try as he might. But last time they stopped for the horses to get a bit of water in them, Tilly pulled Abigail aside, telling her in hushed tones that it really might be well best for Jack not to be so close. There’s so little Strauss can do for Davey. And Jack, Jack doesn’t have to see that.

Arthur didn’t hesitate to settle Jack on his horse. After a spell, he might send the boy back to his mama, to sit and “help” drive the horses. But for the moment, getting away from the caravan for a bit seems like a decent distraction. 

They’re only a few miles out in front of the wagons, scouting along the trail that leads up into the mountains. Hosea has insisted on pushing as far as the horses can manage before they stop for any length of time. Yesterday, they managed four hours rest in the early hours of the morning. It couldn’t be avoided, though that gave the Pinkertons time to close the gap between them. Or maybe not. Maybe they’ve already given up. Or maybe they’re smart enough to know that they’ve got Van der Linde cornered, and it’s about persistence hunting now. Not speed.

Arthur asks Jack to point out any animal that he might see, help him keep a second set of eyes. Really though, it’s not the wildlife Arthur is looking out for, but it gives Jack something else to focus on.

The wind grows colder, the higher the elevation. And just as the sun begins to dip, and Jack starts to slouch against Arthur’s chest, he turns the reigns to trot back in the direction of the wagons. They’d passed a clearing a half-mile back, that will give them enough space to at least get a fire going, shove some hot food into their cold bellies, and let the horses rest.

—

Jenny goes first, not Davey, Arthur learns. Must’ve stopped breathing sometime over the last couple of miles. Strauss explains with grim detachment that he can tell from the stiffness of the body, the color of her lips. Dutch says they’ll bury her once they find a place to rest for more than a handful of hours. There isn’t enough time to dig a hole and sleep off their exhaustion. 

Arthur is about to volunteer, say that he can manage the grave alright on his own. But when he opens his mouth his vision spins. The solid frame of the wagon behind him keeps him from toppling over. So maybe Dutch is right, and the funeral can wait until later.

—

The respite they need doesn’t come, but they can’t keep dragging Jenny’s body along. Early in the morning, Micah is the first one out with the spade. Reverend Swanson gives her final rites, before they’d even broken earth. When the good Reverend is finished, he carries on with the rest of the wagons. The girl isn’t even in the ground.

The hole Micah digs isn’t deep enough. But the path into the mountains is so cold that they hit frost real shallow. Arthur suggests they cover the grave with rocks, to keep the animals out.

Micah scoffs, tapping the spade against his shoulder. “What does it matter now?”

Climbing on his horse, Micah takes off after the caravan, leaving Arthur to finish stacking stones. 

—

Colter is a dismal, wretched place. But there are roofs over their heads, and enough working fireplaces to heat a handful of abandoned shacks. The blizzard that settles all around them will keep the Pinkertons away, if they were even still in pursuit. 

Dutch says they can hunker down here, maybe until the spring frost. Arthur doesn’t know about that. The larders are all bone-empty. And while they can hunt for game, maybe fish a bit, they’ll likely get sick without anything else to fill their bellies.

They don’t unpack the wagons, at least the first night. Dutch barely sleeps, still too worried that they aren’t out far enough. Another day and night passes on small rations and sleeping in brief shifts. But at least they light the fires, Abigail and Miss Grimshaw testing out the fireplaces one by one, until they’re satisfied that the smoke won’t kill them in their sleep. 

On the third day, Dutch tells them to start settling in, they’re staying.

Arthur isn’t quite sure if it’s night now, or something approaching daylight. The snow has been too heavy and thick, sticking in the windows of the shack he’s chosen as his own. He lights the candle on the nightstands, because there are lots of candles here. Enough for a vibrant, bustling settlement, instead of the ruin Colter has become. No food, but plenty of wax.

Opening his journal across his lap, Arthur is at a loss for where to begin. What he should scribble down, to help make sense of the last several days. How is he supposed to reconcile what feels like a dream? What he suspects might be the beginning of a nightmare? He’s not poetic enough to say, really. Not smart enough to write anything at all. Instead, he watches as the candle starts to meld, sketching out the way the wax beads against the length of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read. Comments and kudos are always appreciated. Currently I’m planning on updating once a week. I’m generally pretty good at keeping a schedule once I set it, and I’m really excited to be working on this project.
> 
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> [tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)


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